THE 


LADIES'  COMPANION. 


ILLUSTRATED 


WITH  NUMEROUS 

STEEL  ENGKAVINGS. 


AND 

COLORED  FLOWER  PLATES. 


THE  SISTEES. 


A  LEAF  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  OF  AN  ANTIQUARIAN. 


The  old  manor  house  of  Folkstone  has  little  to  attract  the 
notice  of  the  passing  wayfarer,  for  its  fine  park  is  now  con- 
verted into  a  sheep  pasture,  its  flower  garden  is  planted  with 
turnips,  and  its  noble  woods  have  long  since  been  felled  to  enable 
its  owner  to  enrich  and  embellish  some  fairer  domain.  The 
house  has  suffered  comparatively  little  from  time,  but  a  fiercer 
enemy  has  been  at  work  within  its  walls,  and  in  its  finest  apart- 
ments are  still  visible  the  traces  of  that  devouring'  fire  which 
has  reduced  it  almost  to  ruin.  Strange  stories  are  abroad  con- 
cerning the  origin  of  that  fire.  The  present  owner,  a  wild  and 
dissolute  youth,  came  down  to  visit  it,  with  a  party  of  gay 
revellers,  soon  after  it  fell  into  his  possession.  Five  more  stately 
and  better  appointed  mansions  were  already  his,  for  he  was  one 
of  the  wealthiest  of  England's  peers,  and  when  he  beheld  the 
worm-eaten  tapestries  and  mouldering  furniture,  he  was  heard 
to  exclaim,  with  a  loud  oath — 

"  I  would  that  my  mad  cousin  of  Folkstone  had  set  fire  to 
the  old  nest ;  it  will  cost  more  in  taxes  than  the  lands  will  yield 
in  revenue." 

His  steward,  a  keen-eyed,  iron-faced  man,  heard  his  master's 
words,  and  on  the  very  night  after  the  young  lord's  departure, 
the  building  was  discovered  to  be  in  flames.  Some  said  it  was 
a  judgment  from  Heaven — others  shook  their  heads,  and  whis- 
pered that  the  agency  of  man  was  visible  in  a  fire  which  had 
broken  out  from  four  different  points  at  the  same  moment,  and 
certain  it  is  that  no  money  was  ever  spent  upon  the  repair  of 
the  once  noble  structure.  I  had  been  told  that  the  staircase 
was  still  decorated  with  some  remains  of  the  magnificent  oaken 
carvings  which  had  once  adorned  many  of  the  rooms,  and  I 


JO 


THE  SISTERS. 


was  therefore  induced  to  visit  the  almost  roofless  mansion,  which 
certainly  promised  little  to  reward  my  search.  I  had  wandered 
for  some  time  through  the  empty  apartments,  which  were  nearly 
stripped  of  every  vestige  of  furniture,  when,  upon  opening  the 
door  of  a  small  chamber  that  seemed  originally  designed  for  an 
oratory,  I  found  myself  suddenly  in  the  presence  of  a  picture, 
whose  tints  were  so  unfaded  and  life  like,  that,  for  a  moment,  I 
started  as  if  the  actual  beings  had  suddenly  risen  before  me. 

The  picture  represented  two  young  girls,  with  the  arm  of 
one  resting  on  the  neck  of  the  other.  Perhaps,  had  I  seen  the 
picture  elsewhere,  it  might  not  have  offered  such  powerful 
attraction,  although  it  was  as  exquisite  in  its  execution  as  in  its 
design.  But  the  faces  of  those  beautiful  girls,  gleaming  out 
from  the  dark  oaken  panel  in  which  the  picture  was  deeply 
inserted — this  painted  semblance  of  life,  active  and  joyous  life, 
in  the  midst  of  utter  desolation — this  solitary  vestige  of  a  race 
now  passed  forever  from  the  earth — this  single  record  of  the 
past,  which  had  escaped  the  destruction  to  which  its  stranger 
lord  had  doomed  the  home  of  an  ancient  family,  awakened  a 
feeling  of  awe  for  which  I  could  scarcely  account,  even  to 
myself.  I  gazed  upon  those  bright  faces,  until  imagination 
began  to  weave  many  a  dream  of  the  fortunes  of  those  lovely 
children.  I  pictured  them  the  idol  of  their  stately  parents,  the 
pride  of  the  family,  the  darlings  of  their  dependents.  I  had 
been  struck  with  their  wonderful  similarity  of  feature,  and  I 
fancied  theYair  sisters  had  been  as  much  assimilated  in  charac- 
ter, while  I  endeavored  to  sketch  some  probable  view  of  their 
course  through  life.  The  setting  sun,  which,  beaming  through 
the  single  window,  suddenly  lighted  up  the  lonely  picture  with  a 
halo  of  departing  glory,  recalled  me  to  myself,  and,  as  I  turned 
my  back  upon  the  little  chamber,  I  felt  the  folly  of  my  own 
imaginings.  Why  should  I  seek  to  penetrate  the  veil  of 
years?  They  had  lived,  and  probably  loved,  and  certainly 
suffered,  and  doubtless  their  ashes  were  now  mingling  with 
those  of  their  forefathers  in  the  family  vault  of  the  neighboring 
chapel.  They  had  but  shared  the  common  lot  of  all  mankind, 
and  why  should  I  be  so  strangely  interested  in  two  fair  faces  on 
which  the  worm  had  long  since  feasted  in  the  silent  tomb  ?  Yet 
those  beautiful  children  seemed  to  me  like  a  bright  vision,  seen 
amid  the  blackness  of  darkness,  long  after  I  had  returned  to 


THE  SISTERS. 


II 


my  solitary  room,  and  I  determined  to  make  some  inquiries 
respecting  them  ere  I  left  the  neighborhood.  There  are  always 
some  old  retainers  of  a  noble  house,  or  at  least  some  descendants 
of  such,  who  haunt  the  scenes  of  ancient  splendor ;  and  from 
an  aged  crone,  whose  mother  had  been  the  nurse  of  the  beau- 
tiful girls  whose  portraits  I  had  seen,  I  learned  the  tale  which 
proved  how  false  had  been  my  own  imaginings. 

The  ladies  Charlotte  and  Grace  were  the  only  children  of  the 
proud  old  marquis  whose  ancestors  had  for  centuries  ruled  over 
the  domain  of  Folkstone.  Born  after  a  childless  marriage  of 
many  years,  perhaps  both  parents  would  have  been  better 
pleased  if  one  fair  son  had  been  given  to  them  instead  of  the 
two  fragile  daughters  who  were  now  destined  to  inherit  the 
estates,  and  extinguish  the  name  of  their  ancient  family.  But 
parental  affection  silenced,  if  it  could  not  subdue,  their  regrets, 
and  ere  long  the  girls  were  the  idols  of  both  father  and  mother. 

Entitled  by  their  birth  to  rank  and  affluence,  gifted  by  nature 
with  exceeding  beauty,  and  almost  worshipped  by  parents  who 
had  long  despaired  of  beholding  the  renewal  of  their  youth  in 
their  own  offspring,  they  early  learned  their  own  importance  in 
the  eyes  of  the  whole  household.  Their  will  became  a  law  to 
all,  from  the  proud  old  lord  down  to  his  humblest  servant,  and 
it  is  not  surprising  that  they  soon  acquired  a  full  portion  of  the 
waywardness  which  is  ever  the  result  of  unlimited  indulgence. 
Many  a  dispute  which  has  separated  those  whom  God  himself 
had  united — many  a  family  feud  which  has  left  its  inheritance 
of  hatred  in  the  second  and  third  generations — many  a  bitter 
jealousy — many  an  evil  passion  which  curdles  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  in  the  hearts  of  men,  and  makes  the  bond  of  kindred 
only  a  fetter  which  is  gladly  broken — may  be  traced  to  the 
petty  bickerings  and  still  renewed  quarrels  which  disturbed  the 
days  of  infancy.  The  misfortunes  which  befel  the  beautiful  sis- 
ters, if  traced  to  their  first  cause,  will  be  found  to  have  arisen 
in  that  disunion  of  feeling,  and  selfishness  which  characterized 
their  childhood,  while  the  wonderful  similarity  which  distin- 
guished their  moral  as  well  as  their  physical  nature,  and  which 
should  have  bound  them  by  the  closest  ties,  became  only  an 
unfailing  source  of  discord  and  dislike. 

As  nothing  is  more  unlovely  than  childhood  without  its  inno- 
cent attributes,  its  frankness,  its  overflowing  affections,  its  utter 


12 


THE  SISTERS. 


unselfishness,  its  purity  of  feeling — we  will  pass  over  the  events 
of  the  sisters'  early  life ;  events  which,  though  of  trifling  import 
in  themselves,  were  of  no  little  consequence  to  the  formation 
of  character.  In  their  teens,  the  ladies  Charlotte  and  Grace 
were  known  to  all  the  country  around  as  the  Beauties  of  Folk- 
stone  ;  and  the  rare  spectacle  of  two  young  females  so  exqui- 
sitely lovely,  drew  around  them  a  crowd  of  admirers.  It 
required  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  both  to  discover  the 
points  of  difference  which  existed  between  them,  yet  these 
differences  were  of  the  most  decided  and  definite  kind.  Pos- 
sessed of  equally  violent  passions,  equally  self-willed  and  reso- 
lute of  purpose,  they  yet  were  most  unlike  in  talent  and  power 
of  self-possession.  Charlotte,  with  far  more  real  strength  of 
mind  than  her  sister,  had  far  less  control  over  her  wayward 
impulses.  Her  acuteness  of  perception  and  brilliant  wit  gave 
point  and  poignancy  to  her  conversation,  which  too  frequently 
degenerated  into  severity  and  sarcasm,  while  the  least  irritation 
of  temper  produced  such  cutting  and  violent  invectives  against 
the  offender  that  few  were  found  willing  to  brave  her  anger 
more  than  once.  But  with  all  these  defects  she  yet  possessed 
a  degree  of  generous  frankness,  and  magnanimity  in  acknow- 
ledging her  errors,  which  gave  promise  of  many  noble  qualities 
hidden  beneath  the  waywardness  of  her  temper.  Grace,  on  the 
contrary,  was  one  of  those  sensitive,  morbid  creatures,  who 
delight  in  cherishing  every  sentiment  into  a  passion ;  romance 
was  the  atmosphere  in  which  she  sought  to  dwell,  and,  failing 
to  find  its  subtle  essence  pervading  the  grosser  elements  of 
every-day  life,  she  was  ever  fretful,  repining,  and  discontented. 
But  Grace  was,  also,  a  profound  and  skillful  dissembler.  Though 
guided  ever  by  the  impulses  of  a  headstrong  will,  she  yet  man- 
aged to  appear  one  of  the  most  refined  and  delicate  and  gentle 
of  women.  Though  resolute  of  purpose,  and  defying  all  hin 
drances  when  her  passions  were  excited,  she  seemed  only  one 
of  those  frail,  dependent,  timid  creatures  who  attach  themselves 
to  the  hearts  of  men  by  their  very  helplessness.  "While  the 
dark  eyes  of  Charlotte  flashed  with  the  fires  of  intellect,  those 
of  Grace  were  full  of  liquid  light,  as  if  a  tear  were  ever  ready  to 
soften  their  rich  lustre.  While  the  chiselled  lips  of  the  franker 
sister  were  sometimes  wreathed  with  merry  smiles,  sometimes 
curved  in  bitter  scorn,  the  rose-bud  mouth  of  the  gentle  Grace 


THE  SISTERS. 


13 


never  expressed  a  ruder  emotion  than  quiet  pleasure  or  placid 
pensiveness.  While  the  lithe  figure  of  one  was  seen  in  all  the 
unstudied  grace  of  attitude,  which  might  beseem  a  wood-nymph, 
the  drooping  form  and  equally  picturesque  but  more  artificial 
postures  of  the  other  would  have  afforded  a  model  to  the  sculp- 
tor who  vainly  sought  to  image  the  statue  of  modesty. 

Scarcely  had  the  beautiful  sisters  attained  the  age  of  woman- 
hood, when  death  deprived  them  of  their  mother,  whose  weak 
indulgence  had  fostered  the  growth  of  those  errors  in  her  chil- 
dren of  which  she  was  keenly  sensible  ere  she  was  removed 
from  them  forever.  They  felt  little  respect  for  the  parent  who 
had  early  submitted  her  better  judgment  to  their  infantine 
caprices,  and,  like  all  spoiled  children,  they  made  a  most  ungrate- 
ful return  for  her  unlimited  affection.  She  was  allowed  to 
minister  to  their  pleasures,  but  when,  excited  by  their  wilfulness, 
she  attempted  to  act  the  mentor,  or  to  assert  her  long  dormant 
authority,  she  was  met  by  utter  contempt  for  her  counsels, 
and  disregard  of  her  commands.  Her  last  days  were  embit- 
tered by  their  disobedience,  and  the  children  who  had  been 
bestowed  as  blessings,  were,  by  her  own  excess  of  affection, 
made  her  most  bitter  scourges.  Their  father,  a  weak,  silly, 
proud  old  man,  who  fancied  that  every  thing  which  appertained 
to  him  was  beyond^  censure  or  criticism,  and  who  allowed  his 
daughters  to  act  precisely  as  they  pleased,  so  long  as  they  did 
not  controvert  his  peculiar  prejudices,  was  little  calculated  to 
be  their  guide  during  the  perilous  period  of  life  which  they  had 
just  entered.  Thus  left  to  follow  the  dictates  of  their  own  will, 
they  could  scarcely  fail  of  laying  up  a  store  of  future  suffering. 

Among  their  numerous  admirers  was  one  who  mingled  timidly 
with  the  throng  of  the  noble  and  gifted  that  surrounded  the 
lovely  heiresses  of  Folkstone,  as  if  conscious  of  his  feeble  claims 
upon  their  notice  or  regard.  Herbert  Bellenden  was  a  younger 
son,  who,  from  his  boyhood,  had  been  destined  to  the  church, 
because  a  valuable  living  was  in  the  gift  of  his  family.  His 
rectory  was  but  a  short  distance  from  Folkstone,  and  the  large 
estates  of  his  elder  brother  lay  contiguous  to  those  which  were 
the  future  inheritance  of  the  lovely  sisters.  Shy  and  retiring 
in  his  manner,  a  student  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  he 
avoided  society  with  an  almost  morbid  feeling  of  self-distrust 
and  false  pride ;  while  his  keen  sense  of  the  beautiful,  and  his 


II 


THE  SISTERS. 


ardent  admiration  of  feminine  loveliness,  led  him  to  find  his 
chief  delight  in  the  continuance  of  his  boyish  intimacy  with  the 
ladies  of  Folkstone.  He  had  mastered  much  of  the  lore  of 
books,  and  had  not  altogether  neglected  the  study  of  human 
nature,  though  his  reserved  manners  gave  him  little  facility  in 
this  pursuit — but  of  that  strangest  of  all  strange  volumes — the 
heart  of  woman — he  was  profoundly  and  hopelessly  ignorant 
Considering  the  sex  as  vastly  inferior  to  men  in  intellectual 
strength,  he  looked  upon  them  as  fair  and  gentle  beings,  sent  to 
soften  man's  rugged  nature,  and  embellish  life's  dreary  scenes  ? 
but  the  idea  that  they  had  characters  which  might  be  studied, 
and  faculties  which  might  be  developed,  never  once  occurred  to 
him. 

To  a  man  of  secluded  habits  and  timid  nature,  the  bold, 
frank,  fearless  bearing  of  Charlotte  was  far  more  attractive  than 
the  sensitive  and  relying  temper  of  Grace.  He  had  not  the 
decision  of  character  and  firmness  of  purpose  which  is  sufficient 
for  itself,  and  can,  therefore,  afford  to  offer  its  support  to  the 
feebler  nature  of  woman.  Charlotte's  self-reliance,  though 
generally  the  least  attractive  of  all  feminine  traits,  seemed 
peculiarly  calculated  to  please  one  who  was  conscious  of  his 
own  weakness ;  and  Herbert  Bellenden  was  not  long  in  discov- 
ering that  his  affections  were  no  longer  in  his  own  keeping. 
That  his  fine  talents,  his  poetic  temperament,  his  enthusiasm, 
and  his  romance  of  feeling  should  have  given  him  an  interest  in 
the  heart  of  the  morbidly  sensitive  Grace,  was  by  no  means 
extraordinary;  but  that  the  high-spirited  and  joyous-hearted 
Charlotte — she  who  shared  her  father's  pride,  and  looked  with 
scorn  upon  all  who  trod  a  lowlier  path  through  life  than  that 
which  she  pursued — she  who  mocked  at  the  name  of  love,  and 
despised  the  thought  of  being  humbled  to  the  condition  of  a 
loving  and  submissive  woman — she  who  had  heretofore  fancied 
that  a  paladin  of  the  olden  time,  a  knight  ready  to  do  his  devoir 
to  the  death,  or  at  least  a  noble  gentleman,  skilled  in  all  manly 
and  daring  exercises,  could  alone  fix  her  wandering  fancy — that 
she  should  have  loved  the  shy  and  vacillating  student,  was  one 
of  those  marvels  for  which  philosophy  has  no  explanation. 
Alas  !  were  "  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will,"  how  much 
of  the  suffering  which  belongs  to  its  full  and  perfect  develop- 
ment, would  the  hearts  of  men,  and  more  especially  of  women. 


THE  SISTERS. 


15 


be  spared.  Herbert  loved  the  high-souled  Charlotte ;  and  the 
lofty  Charlotte,  as  well  as  the  romantic  Grace,  had  yielded  up 
their  hearts  to  him.  Both,  turning  from  the  advantages  which 
were  offered  them  by  wealth  and  rank,  had  bestowed  their 
affections  on  the  youthful  rector.  But  while  Charlotte  proudly 
and  sternly  struggled  against  the  love  which  was  daily  gaining 
new  vigor  in  her  heart,  Grace,  ever  attracted  by  those  incon- 
gruities of  life  which  give  a  tincture  of  romance  to  the  dull 
realities  of  this  working-day  world,  cherished  the  feeble  senti- 
ment of  preference  into  a  deep  and  absorbing  passion. 

It  would  be  useless  to  attempt  describing  the  progress  of 
those  events  which  gradually  tended  to  compass  the  scheme  of 
the  romantic  but  self-willed  Grace.  She  had  early  discovered 
Herbert  Bellenden's  preference  for  Charlotte — she  had  almost 
as  soon  detected  her  proud  sister's  mental  struggles  against 
reciprocal  affection,  and  yet,  in  despite  of  these  things,  she 
resolved  to  win  the  object  of  her  love,  even  if  her  path  to  the 
altar  led  over  her  sister's  crushed  and  bleeding  heart.  All  the 
powerful  machinery  of  a  woman's  wiliness  was  put  in  motion  to 
secure  the  prize.  All  that  she  could  devise  of  boldness  or  of 
stratagem  was  exercised  upon  the  unsuspecting  lovers.  By  cun- 
ningly constructed  tales  of  Herbert's  presumption,  Charlotte  was 
instigated  to  treat  him  with  a  degree  of  proud  coldness,  almost 
amounting  to  contempt,  while  the  downcast  eye  of  Grace,  her 
quivering  lip,  her  trembling  voice,  her  agitated  manner  when  in 
his  presence,  were  all  made  to  bear  palpable  witness  to  the 
depth  of  her  own  fervent  tenderness.  A  woman's  cunning  is 
almost  sure  of  success,  because  men  rarely  suspect  the  sex 
until  they  have  had  some  experience  of  their  falsehood,  and 
even  if  once  deceived,  personal  vanity  is  usually  a  most  powerful 
auxiliary  on  the  side  of  the  weaker,  but  more  subtle  adversary. 
Herbert  Bellenden  was  entirely  deceived  by  the  devices  of 
Grace.  He  fancied  that  the  sensitive  girl  was  cherishing  a 
hopeless  passion  which  she  vainly  struggled  to  hide,  and  when 
he  compared  her  ill-concealed  agitation  of  manner  with  the 
stern,  cold  indifference  of  her  sister,  he  could  not  but  wonder 
at  his  own  waywardness  in  thus  humbling  himself  before  the 
contemner,  while  he  turned  from  the  worshipper. 

One  evening— it  was  the  dusk  hour  of  twilight,  and  the  sha- 
dow of  the  broad  and  gnarled  oaks  threw  a  deeper  gloom  over 


16 


THE  SISTERS. 


the  pathway,  as  Herbert  encountered  the  lady  of  his  love. 
She  was  treading  with  quick  step  a  narrow  walk  which  traversed 
the  lawn,  and  lost  itself  in  the  darkest  woodland.  A  closed 
bonnet  partly  hid  her  features,  but  the  proud  curve  of  those 
smiling  lips,  the  stately  tread  of  that  tall  form  was  not  to  be 
mistaken.  He  little  knew  what  thoughts  of  coming  triumph 
had  lent  that  haughty  look  and  that  proud  step  to  the  maiden 
who  now  stood  beside  him.  Day  after  day  had  he  brooded 
over  his  preference  for  the  cold  beauty,  and  pondered  on  the 
belief  that  he  was  the  object  of  her  sister's  love.  Sometimes 
he  was  tempted  to  banish  himself  from  the  presence  of  both — 
sometimes  he  was  upon  the  point  of  devoting  himself  to  the 
gentle  and  loving  Grace — yet  his  vacillating  temper  led  him 
still  to  defer  the  moment  of  explanation.  Now,  however,  he 
was  nerved  by  a  courage  heretofore  unknown  to  him.  They 
were  alone — no  witnesses  but  the  silent  stars  could  behold  his 
agitation — his  voice  would  reach  no  ears  save  hers — and  yield- 
ing to  an  impulse  which  he  could  neither  understand  nor  con- 
trol, he  poured  forth  the  long  repressed  tide  of  deep  affection. 
Silently  did  the  lady  listen  to  the  burning  words  of  passion — 
silently  did  she  suffer  him  to  draw  her  toward  him — silently  did 
she  hide  her  face  upon  his  bosom,  as  he  prayed  her  to  forget 
rank  and  fortune,  and  parental  anger,  for  the  strong  and  abiding 
love  of  a  husband's  heart.  Did  no  misgiving  seize  him  when 
he  found  the  haughty  and  frank  Charlotte  listening  calmly  to 
such  a  proposition  ?  Did  he  believe  that  passion  had  so  sub- 
dued her  proud  temper  that  she  would  not  only  wed  the  unti- 
tled younger  son,  but  even  degrade  herself  by  a  clandestine 
marriage ! 

On  the  night  following  this  unlooked  for  interview,  a  veiled 
and  muffled  figure  stole  silently  from  a  postern  gate,  which 
opened  upon  a  by-path  through  Folkstone  park.  The  clock 
was  striking  midnight  as  the  disguised  lady  approached  the 
trysting  place.  Herbert  Bellenden  was  already  there — the  car- 
riage was  in  waiting,  and,  with  a  silent  embrace,  the  lovers 
hurried  to  enter  it.  Ere  the  next  day's  sun  had  set,  the  whole 
neighborhood  knew  that  Herbert  Bellenden  had  robbed  Folk- 
stone  of  one  of  its  fairest  ornaments.  The  story  was  widely 
diffused,  but,  strange  to  say,  half  the  world  made  Charlotte  the 
partner  of  his  flight,  while  others  said  that  Grace  was  the  bride. 


THE  SISTERS. 


17 


The  gossips  were  only  satisfied  when  Charlotte,  looking  pale 
and  sorrowful,  but  still  as  proud  and  queenly  as  ever,  was  seen 
accompanying  her  father  in  his  daily  rides.  It  was  strange, 
passing  strange. 

Time  passed  on,  and  wrought  his  usual  changes  as  he  winged 
his  silent  way.  Five  years  had  elapsed  since  the  eventful  night 
which  had  thus  far  decided  the  fate  of  the  sisters.  The  old 
lord  of  Folkstone  was  gathered  to  his  fathers — the  stately  and 
beautiful  Charlotte  dwelt  alone  in  the  ancient  hall,  for,  except- 
ing her  sister,  there  were  none  of  her  near  kindred  left  upon 
earth.  Herbert  Bellenden  had  inherited  the  title  and  fortune 
which  had  once  belonged  to  his  elder  brother,  who  had  recently 
died  childless,  and  the  beautiful  Grace,  who,  to  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  had  sacrificed  ambition  to  love  when  she  wedded,  now 
reaped  her  reward  in  her  newly  acquired  rank  and  wealth.  At 
the  death-bed  of  their  aged  father,  a  reconciliation  had  taken 
place  between  the  estranged  family.  The  old  man,  who  could 
not  forgive  his  daughter's  marriage  with  a  younger  son,  was 
induced  to  bestow  his  blessing  on  the  richly  dowered  countess, 
and  Charlotte,  whose  cold,  proud  demeanor  had  now  become 
habitual,  did  not  refuse  to  accede  to  the  proffered  peace.  But 
though  there  might  be  peace  between  them,  there  could  be  no 
affection.  Charlotte's  heart  had  received  a  wound  which  was 
yet  unhealed,  and  Grace  was  hiding  within  her  bosom  a  secret 
which  she  dreaded  lest  her  very  thoughts  should  reveal.  Jeal- 
ous of  every  look  and  word  which  her  husband  bestowed  upon 
another,  pining  for  the  kindness  and  affection  which  Herbert 
neither  would  nor  could  bestow,  and  continually  trembling  lest 
something  should  occur  to  break  the  frail  bonds  which  seemed 
to  hold  her  husband  to  her  side,  she  had  indeed  reaped  her 
reward  in  utter  disappointment  and  misery. 

But  her  punishment  was  not  yet  come.  Grace  was  preparing 
for  her  first  winter  in  London,  where  she  had  resolved  to  appear 
in  all  the  splendors  of  her  beauty  and  her  fortune,  when  a  fear- 
ful accident  overthrew  all  her  hopes.  "While  in  the  act  of  step- 
ping out  of  her  carriage,  the  horses  took  fright,  and  the  fair 
countess  was  thrown  violently  to  the  ground,  while  her  dress 
becoming  entangled  in  the  steps,  she  was  dragged  some  distance 
over  the  rugged  road  before  assistance  could  be  afforded.  She 
was  taken  up  apparently  lifeless,  and  so  frightfully  disfigured 


18 


THE  SISTERS. 


that  she  was  scarcely  to  be  recognized.  Medical  skill  was 
immediately  procured,  but  for  many  hours  she  lay  between  life 
and  death,  and  it  was  not  until  the  second  day  that  the  doctor 
pronounced  the  crisis  to  be  past. 

"  Everything  depends  upon  care  now,"  said  the  man  of  wis- 
dom ;  "  the  slightest  change  may  prove  fatal  to  her ;  the  most 
trivial  neglect  is  death." 

Then  leaving  a  draught,  to  be  taken  at  regular  intervals,  the 
doctor  sought  the  repose  which,  during  her  most  imminent 
danger,  he  had  denied  himself. 

That  very  night,  as  Charlotte  watched  beside  the  bed  of  her 
unconscious  sister — in  the  very  presence  of  the  helpless  sufferer 
who  knew  not  of  what  was  passing  around  her — that  very  night, 
from  the  lips  of  him  whom  she  still  loved  better  than  aught  else 
on  earth,  did  Charlotte  listen  to  a  tale  which  almost  maddened 
her.  It  was  her  love  that  Herbert  Bellenden  had  sought — it 
was  her  hand  he  had  tried  to  win — it  was  her  whom  he  fancied 
he  was  bearing  to  a  clandestine,  marriage,  and  not  until  the  hur- 
ried and  confused  ceremony  was  over — not  until  the  veil  was 
removed  from  the  face  of  her  whom  he  claimed  as  his  wife,  did 
he  learn  that  Grace,  and  not  Charlotte,  was  his  companion. 

"  From  that  hour,  Charlotte,"  said  he,  "  I  have  loathed  the 
very  air  she  breathed,  and  the  very  earth  she  trod.  She  has 
been  as  a  serpent  in  my  path,  and  yet  her  tears,  her  agony,  her 
blandishments,  have  won  me  to  treat  her  sometimes  with  a  ten- 
derness that  has  seemed  almost  like  love.  Yes,"  he  added, 
bitterly,  "  she  has  been  as  a  serpent  in  my  path,  as  a  deadly 
adder  whose  sting  I  feel  in  my  very  heart  of  hearts  ;  and  now 
she  lies  like  a  crushed  worm  before  me — thus  to  drag  out  per- 
haps years  of  misery — a  fearful  and  humble  sight  to  all — a 
heavy  and  wretched  burden  to  my  existence." 

What  were  the  feelings  of  Charlotte  when  she  listened  to 
this  strange  tale  ?  The  flood-gates  of  passion  were  thrown 
down — the  barriers  of  pride  and  principle  gave  way,  and  in 
that  fearful  hour  the  secret  of  her  long  hoarded  passion  was 
revealed  to  the  weak  and  vacillating  husband  of  another.  From 
that  moment  Charlotte  never  re-entered  her  sister's  apartment, 
and  never  again  met  Herbert  Bellenden  save  in  the  presence 
of  others  of  the  household.  But  it  was  observed,  and  men- 
tioned long  afterwards,  when  circumstances  awakened  fearful 


THE  SISTERS. 


10 


suspicions,  that  the  charge  of  the  helpless  sufferer  now  devolved 
entirely  on  a  superannuated  old  woman  who  had  long  been 
regarded  with  an  evil  eye  for  her  malice  and  ill-omened  power 
of  mischief. 

Though  crushed  nearly  out  of  all  semblance  to  humanity, 
Grace  seemed  to  cling  to  life  with  wonderful  tenacity,  and  the 
physician  reiterated  his  opinion  that  care  alone  was  necessary 
to  restore  her  to  comparative  health. 

"  She  will  never  walk  again,  poor  thing,"  said  he,  gravely, 
"  and  she  will  scarcely  be  able  to  recover  the  use  of  her  hands  ; 
her  features,  too,  must  always  be  terribly  distorted,  and  I  doubt 
whether  her  eye-sight  will  be  fully  restored — but  no  vital  func- 
tion is  seriously  injured,  and  she  may  yet  live  many  years." 

That  very  night,  or  rather  at  dawn  of  the  following  day, 
Grace  was  found  stark  and  stiff  in  death,  while  the  old  woman, 
whose  business  it  was  to  watch  the  sufferer,  lay  in  a  deep  sleep 
on  the  floor  beside  her.  The  physician  seemed  thunderstruck 
when  he  beheld  the  lifeless  body  of  her  whom  he  had  left  but 
a  few  hours  before  in  comparative  safety,  but  he  could  not  take 
it  upon  himself  to  assert  that  some  sudden  change  had  not 
occurred,  some  rapid  and  violent  attack  of  disease  whose  symp- 
toms were  unmarked,  and  the  general  disorganization  of  her 
whole  frame.  In  consequence  of  her  disfigured  appearance, 
her  body  was  not  allowed  to  lie  in  state,  although  a  pompous 
funeral  graced  the  obsequies  of  the  once  beautiful  Countess  of 
Moreland.  The  Earl  wore  the  semblance  of  decent  sorrow — 
the  lady  Charlotte  assumed  the  dusky  habiliments  of  wto — and 
yet,  it  was  observed  that  the  old  watcher,  whose  carelessness 
had,  in  all  probability,  shortened  the  days  of  the  unhappy 
countess,  was  taken  into  the  household,  and  honored  with  the> 
confidence  of  the  lady  of  Folkstone. 

Three  months  had  scarcely  elapsed,  after  the  frightful  events 
just  narrated,  when  a  marriage  was  solemnized  secretly  and  by 
torch-light,  in  the  chapel  of  Folkstone.  The  bride  was  the 
beautiful  Charlotte,  and  her  voice  rang  out  through  the  dark 
aisles  of  the  lonely  church  with  almost  unnatural  clearness  as 
she  uttered  the  solemn  responses.  But  the  tones  of  the  bride- 
groom were  hollow  and  low,  and  his  frame  quivered  with  strong 
emotion,  for  his  weak  and  timid  nature  shrunk  from  the  thought 
of  that  which  he  had  done,  and  that  which  he  was  now  doing. 


20 


THE  SISTERS. 


He  had  yielded  to  the  bolder  wickedness  of  the  woman  at  his 
side.  But  he  was  appalled  by  the  shadows  which  conscience 
called  up  before  his  bewildered  sight.  Charlotte  was  revenged, 
alike  upon  the  sister  who  had  wronged,  and  the  dastard  lover 
who  had  wavered,  when  decision  would  have  afforded  hap- 
piness to  both.  Grace  was  laid  in  an  unhonored  grave,  Her- 
bert Bellenden  was  her  wedded  husband,  and  the  long  cher- 
ished bitterness  of  her  wayward  heart  had  at  last  poured  out 
its  venom,  and  was  relieved. 

Did  she  not  fear  the  anger  of  an  avenging  Providence  ?  Did 
she  not  know  that  retributive  justice,  sooner  or  later,  must  over- 
take the  guilty  ?  She  was  allowed  just  time  enough  to  learn 
that  the  husband  for  whom  she  had  perilled  her  soul  was  ren- 
dered utterly  contemptible  by  his  vacillating  character  and  his 
low  vices — and  then  the  hour  of  reckoning  came.  A  child  was 
born  to  the  earldom  of  Moreland — a  son  to  inherit  the  name 
and  honors  of  an  ancient  race — but  a  cry  of  inexpressible  hor- 
ror from  all  who  looked  upon  him  was  his  only  welcome  to  a 
world  of  suffering. 

For  twenty  years  Charlotte  was  manacled  and  bound  like  a 
wild  beast,  chained  to  the  walls  of  her  own  apartment,  an  object 
of  terror  and  pity  to  all  who  looked  upon  her  raving  madness, 
or  listened  to  the  wild  howlings  of  her  insanity.  The  child,  a 
helpless,  crippled  idiot,  outlived  its  miserable  parents,  and,  by 
its  death  in  17 — ,  the  line  of  twTo  of  England's  noblest  families 
became  extinct,  while  the  estates  fell  to  distant  collateral  heirs. 

Such  was  the  real  history  of  those  fair  children  whose  pic- 
tured semblance  had  so  fascinated  my  gaze  in  that  lonely  cham- 
ber— such  were  the  fortunes  of  those  for  v»7hom  I  had  fancied 
a  destiny  of  innocent  happiness. 


A  supreme  fondness  for  any  creature  presumes  that  we  do 
not  perceive  any  worthier  object ;  or,  perceiving  it,  do  not  relish 
it ;  and  wTe  need  not  go  further  for  proof  of  our  utter  incapacity 
for  advancing  in  excellence,  till  we  see  and  relish  something 
higher  and  better. 


FLOWERS. 


"What  a  surprising  variety  is  observable  among  the  flowery 
fribes.  How  has  the  bountiful  hand  of  Providence  diversified 
these  nicest  pieces  of  his  workmanship ;  added  the  charms  of  an 
endless  novelty  to  all  their  other  perfections  !  A  constant  uni- 
formity would  soon  render  the  entertainment  tiresome  or  insipid ; 
therefore  every  species  is  formed  on  a  separate  plan,  and  exhibits 
something  entirely  new.  The  fashion  spreads  not  from  family 
to  family;  but  every  one  has  a  mode  of  its  own,  which  is  truly 
original.  The  most  cursory  glance  perceives  an  apparent  dif- 
ference, as  well  as  a  peculiar  delicacy,  in  the  airs  and  habits, 
the  attitude  and  lineaments,  of  every  distinct  class. 

Some  rear  their  heads  with  a  majestic  mien,  and  overlook, 
like  sovereigns  or  nobles,  the  whole  parterre.  Others  seem 
more  moderate  in  their  aims,  and  advance  only  to  the  middle  sta- 
tions ;  a  genius  turned  for  heraldry  might  term  them  the  gentry 
of  the  border.  While  others,  free  from  all  aspiring  views,  creep 
uuambitiously  on  the  ground,  and  look  like  the  commonality  of 
the  kind.  Some  are  intersected  with  elegant  stripes  or  studded 
with  radiant  spots.  Some  affect  to  be  genteelly  powdered  or 
neatly  fringed  :  while  others  are  plain  in  their  aspect,  unaffected 
in  their  dress,  and  content  to  please  with  a  naked  simplicity. 
Some  assume  the  monarch's  purple :  some  look  most  becoming 
in  the  virgin's  white.  Here  stands  a  warrior  clad  with  crimson  ; 
there  sits  a  magistrate  robed  in  scarlet ;  and  yonder  struts  a 
pretty  fellow,  that  seems  to  have  dipped  his  plumes  in  the  rain- 
bow, and  glitters  in  all  the  gay  colors  of  that  resplendent  arch. 
Some  rise  into  a  curious  cup,  or  fall  into  a  set  of  beautiful  bells. 
Some  spread,  themselves  in  a  swelling  tuft,  or  crowd  into  a 
delicious  cluster.  In  some  the  predominant  stain  softens,  by 
the  gentlest  diminutions,  till  it  has  even  stolen  away  from  itself. 


22 


FLOWERS. 


The  eye  is  amused  at  the  agreeable  delusion;  and  we  wonder 
to  find  ourselves  insensibly  decoyed  into  quite  a  different  lustre. 
In  others  you  would  think  the  fine  tinges  were  emulous  of  pre- 
eminence. Disdaining  to  mingle,  they  confront  one  another 
with  the  resolution  of  rivals,  determined  to  dispute  the  prize  of 
beauty,  while  each  is  improved  by  the  opposition  into  the  high- 
est vivacity  of  complexion. 

Nor  is  the  simplicity  of  the  operation  less  astonishing  than 
the  accuracy  of  the  workmanship  or  the  infinitude  of  the  effects- 
Should  you  ask,  "  "Where  and  what  are  the  materials  which 
beautify  the  blooming  world?  What  rich  tints,  what  splendid 
dyes,  what  stores  of  shining  crayons  stand  by  the  Heavenly 
Limner  when  he  paints  the  robe  of  nature  ?"  'Tis  answered, 
His  powerful  pencil  needs  no  such  costly  apparatus.  A  single 
principle,  under  his  conducting  hand,  branches  out  into  an  im- 
mensity of  the  most  varied  and  most  finished  forms.  The 
moisture  of  the  earth  and  of  the  circumambient  air,  passed 
through  proper  strainers,  and  disposed  in  a  range  of  pellucid 
tubes  ;  this  performs  all  the  wonders,  and  produces  all  the  beau- 
ties of  vegetation.  This  creeps  along  the  fibres  of  the  low- 
spread  moss,  and  climbs  to  the  very  tops  of  the  lofly -waving 
cedars.  This,  attracted  by  the  root,  and  circulating  through 
invisible  canals — this  bursts  into  gems,  expands  itself  into  leaves, 
and  clothes  the  forest  with  all  its  verdant  honors.  This  one 
plain  and  simple  cause  gives  birth  to  all  the  charms  which  deck 
the  youth  and  maturity  of  the  year. 


By  looking  at  the  sun,  we  lose  the  power  of  seeing  other 
objects.  It  was,  I  conceive,  one  design  of  God,  in  hiding  him- 
self so  far  from  us,  in  throwing  around  himself  the  veil  of  his 
works,  to  prevent  this  very  evil.  He  intended  that  our  faculties 
should  be  left  at  liberty  to  act  upon  other  things  beside  him- 
self; that  the  will  should  not  be  crushed  by  his  overpowering 
greatness ;  that  we  should  be  free  agents ;  that  we  should 
recognize  rights  in  ourselves  and  in  others,  as  well  as  in  the 
Creator,  and  thus  be  introduced  into  a  wide  and  ever-enlarging 
sphere  of  action  and  duty. 


THE  SPIEIT  OF  SONG 


BY  ANNIE  DANE. 

Oh  !  Spirit  of  Song,  sweet  Spirit  divine, 
Thou  hast  left  unblest  this  heart  of  mine ; 
From  the  tiny  throat  of  the  warbling  bird, 
Thy  thrilling  and  cheering  tones  are  heard ; 
From  the  rosy  lips  of  the  laughing  child, 
Thy  notes  come  gushing  merrily  and  wild. 

Oh  !  Spirit  of  Song,  sweet  Spirit  divine, 
Thou  hast  left  unblest  this  heart  of  mine. 
"Was  it  nursed  so  darkly  in  sin  and  gloom, 
With  crushing  doubts  for  a  life-long  doom, 
That,  bending  its  cradled  infancy  o'er, 
Thou  wast  haunted  afar  forever  more  1 

Oh  !  Spirit  of  Song,  sweet  Spirit  divine, 
Thou  hast  left  unblest  this  heart  of  mine ; 
And  can  any  one  love  it,  so  cold  and  drear, 
With  no  soft  musical  strains  to  cheer — 
With  no  lay  to  pour  when  the  moon  gleams  bri 
And  no  flute-like  voice  for  the  still  twilight  1 

Oh  !  Spirit  of  Song,  sweet  Spirit  divine, 
Thou  hast  left  unblest  this  heart  of  mine  ; 
And  yet  it  has  melodies  all  unheard — 
Though  sadder  than  those  of  a  prisoned  bird— 
And  fountains  of  joy  that  sparkle  and  play, 
But  whose  gushing  waters  are  pent  alway. 

Oh  !  Spirit  of  Song,  sweet  Spirit  divine, 
Thou  hast  left  unblest  this  heart  of  mine  ; 
And  when  love  shall  come,  with  its  wild  unrest 
To  make  a  home  in  my  feeble  breast, 
I  weep  to  think  that  the  new-born  prayer 
Must  seek  in  vain  for  utterance  there. 

Oh  !  Spirit  of  Song,  sweet  Spirit  divine, 
Thou  hast  left  unblest  this  heart  of  mine  ; 
And  when  I  would  join  the  chant  of  praise. 
My  feeble  lips  can  no  offering  raise— 


s 


24  VIRTUES. 

#  - 

Can  never  their  hymn  of  devotion  pour, 
At  His  holy  shrine,  whom,  unseen,  I  adore. 

Oh !  Spirit  of  Song,  sweet  Spirit  divine, 
Thou  hast  left  unhlest  this  heart  of  mine  ; 
Yet  Hope,  sweet  angel,  is  hovering  near, 
On  a  radiant  wing,  all  spotless  and  clear ; 
And  she  points  afar  to  a  sunny  land, 
The  birth-place  of  song,  with  its  angel  band. 

Oh  !  Spirit  of  Song,  sweet  Spirit  divine, 
Thou  hast  left  unblest  this  heart  of  mine  ; 
Yet  there  I  shall  languish  and  roam  no  more, 
With  the  chalice  of  tenderness  brimming  o'er: 
But  no  words  to  express,  and  no  sounds  to  reveal 
The  full  strength  of  affection  that  now  I  conceal. 

Oh  !  Spirit  of  Song,  sweet  Spirit  divine, 

Thou  hast  left  unblest  this  heart  of  mine  ; 

Yet  there  I  shall  wait,  with  a  thrilling  lyre, 

And  a  soul  unburdened  with  vain  desire, 

And  sing  a  glad  welcome  to  all  I  love, 

As  they  raise  their  bright  pinions  to  hasten  above. 


VIETUES . 


Great  virtues  are  rare ;  the  occasions  for  them  are  rarer ;  and 
when  they  do  occur  we  are  prepared  for  them.  We  are  excited 
by  the  grandeur  of  the  sacrifices.  We  are  supported  either  by 
the  splendor  of  the  deed  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  or  by  the 
self  complacency  that  we  experience  from  the  performance  of  an 
uncommon  action.  Thus  the  hero  perishes  on  the  field  of  battle, 
and  the  martyr  at  the  stake.  Little  things  are  unforeseen ;  they 
return  every  moment ;  they  come  in  contact  with  our  pride,  our 
indolence,  our  haughtiness,  our  readiness  to  take  offence ;  they 
contradict  our  inclinations  perpetually.  Hence  we  regard  not 
as  heroes  those  who  fail  not  in  the  smallest  duties  of  life ;  nor 
as  martyrs  those  who  sacrifice  themselves  to  minuter  virtues.  It 
is,  however,  only  by  fidelity  in  little  things  that  a  true  and  con- 
stant love  of  right  and  virtues  can  be  distinguished  from  a 
passing  fervor  of  spirit — an  enthusiasm  of  the  moment. 


THE  SOMNAMBULE. 


BY  ADOLPH. 


The  phantoms  of  night  had  fled.  The  light  of  tne  morning  was 
around  me.  Over  hill  and  dale  went  forth  the  golden  beams, 
till  the  carol  of  birds  rang  merrily,  and  the  minute  features  of 
the  dreamiest  landscape  that  ever  zoned  a  dear  home  passed 
into  full  exhibition. 

No  disease  illuded  the  senses,  or  disturbed  the  operations  of  the 
understanding.  The  dew  of  my  youth  and  strength  was  upon»me, 
and  the  visions  of  the  night  had  refreshed  me  I  had  dreamed  of 
usefulness — I  had  dreamed  of  renown — I  had  dreamed  of  love. 
One  by  one  the  visions  departed  to  the  low  tones  of  music,  and  the 
glances  of  affection,  and  all  within  me  was  placid  as  the  lake 
which  has  just  mirrored  the  bright  hues  and  gay  forms  of  a 
summer  sunset. 

A  sound  was  upon  the  breeze,  and  a  voice  was  in  my  ear.  I 
raised  my  eyes  from  the  classic  page  on  which  they  were  resting, 
and  lo  !  Mercury,  the  herald-god,  stood  before  me.  I  knew  him 
by  the  winged  helmet  upon  his  head,  the  winged  sandals  upon 
his  feet,  and  the  wand  of  office  in  his  hand — just  as  he  was  in 
the  days  of  the  bard  of  Mantua,  and  of  the  blind  old  man  of 
Scio.  Addressing  me  in  the  very  best  of  modern  Greek,  he 
summoned  me  in  the  name  of  cloud-compelling  Jupiter,  king 
of  gods  and  men,  to  be  present  without  delay  at  a  grand  council 
of  the  Olympian  Deities.  I  was  about  inviting  him  to  take  a 
seat  by  the  fire,  and  wait  for  some  ambrosial  refreshments,  when 
he  suddenly  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  at  once  we  were  in  mid- 
heaven,  and  posting  to  the  Orient  with  the  speed  of  thought. 

Hail,  F  !  lovely  home  of  the  lovely  and  true !  Hail 

mighty  Ocean  !  thy  bosom  peopled  with  isles,  and  dotted  with 
sails;  bearing  on  thy  breast  the  navies  and  argosies  of  the 
world,  and  untold  wealth  of  bold  and  free  hearts.  Hail  to  the 
land  of  the  renowned  Cid  !  the  land  of  the  tourney  and  ballad  — 


26 


THE  SOMNAMBULE. 


of  chivalry  and  romance !  Yonder,  in  the  Sierra  Nevada,  the 
Campeador  and  Himena  plighted  their  early  troth.  There,  at 
the  lists  of  Seville,  Kodrigo  broke  his  hundred  lances  -for  his 
lady-love.  There,  from  the  tower  of  the  Alhambra,  watched  the 
tearful  Moorish  maiden  as  the  white  plume  of  her  chieftain 
floated  long  over  the  surge  of  battle  and  sank — and  Granada 
was  lost  and  won.  And  thou,  Hesperia,  hail !  And  hail,  thou 
land  of  Dido !  hapless,  forsaken  Dido — the  pitied  of  all  hearts. 

The  isles  of  Greece !  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung ! 

And  away  in  the  distance  the  Troad  of  Helen,  and  the  storied 
straits  of  Leander. 

At  this  moment  a  dense  cloud  poured  around  us.  With  the 
rapidity  of  thought  we  darted  upward  for  a  moment,  and  then 
stood.  The  cloud  slowly  rolled  away.  My  journey  was  finished. 
Olympus  was  reached — the  assembly  of  the  gods  was  before  me. 

Truly  an  august  assembly !  All  riches  of  nature  and  art, 
all  beauty  and  majesty,  were  there.  There  sat  the  Thunderer, 
whose  nod  shakes  the  world,  and  queenly  Juno  by  his  side. 
There  sat  Neptune  with  his  trident,  Pluto  with  his  keys,  Apollo 
with  his  bags  and  lyre,  Venus,  radiant  queen  of  beauty  and 
love,  with  her  sisters,  and  on  her  knee  the  mischief-loving  boy 
of  the  laughing  eye  and  the  rattling  quiver.  In  a  word,  every 
deity  was  present,  and  every  countenance  was  grave.  Surely 
the  business  is  weighty  which  checks  the  mirth  of  the  Thyrsian 
god,  and  crowds  the  morning  Divan  of.  Olympus. 

Let  no  one  doubt  the  reality  of  the  facts  I  shall  relate,  or 
question  my  right  to  relate  thorn.  They  are  as  true  as  Jupiter 
himself,  and  I  hold  my  commission  to  divulge  them  under  the 
broad  seal  of  Olympus. 

The  Council  opened.  Jupiter  nodded — the  world  shook,  and 
Mercury  came  forward.  Hark  to  the  silver-voiced  herald! 
"  Jupiter  wills  the  plaintiff  to  appear  and  state  bis  complaints; 
the  will  of  Jupiter  be  done  !"  In  an  instant  the  rattling  of  a 
quiver  was  heard,  and,  at  a  bound,  Cupid  appeared  on  the 
rostrum,  and,  with  lifted  hands,  frowning  brow,  and  trumpet- 
voice,  thus  addressed  the  assembly : — 

"  Paternal  Jove,  and  ye  sons  and  daughters  of  Olympus  ! 
My  power  is  scorned  !  My  arrows  are  derided  !  My  throne 
is  in  danger  !    What  to  me  are  the  trophies  of  the  past  ?  What 


THE  SOMNAMBULE. 


27 


to  me  the  pledges  of  the  future  ?  Example  spreads  like  the 
miasm  of  the  desert.  Alas !  for  the  halcyon  hours  of  the  dim 
past.  Alas  !  for  the  days  of  the  old  renown.  Then  the  heart 
was  tender,  the  age  golden,  and  Arcadia  universal.  Then 
maidens  welcomed  me  with  smiles,  and  I  had  an  altar  in  every 
home,  and  an  arrow  in  every  heart.  But  gone  forever  are  the 
days  of  my  power,  and  gone  the  days  of  love. 

Wonder,  not,  most  mighty  father,  at  the  strength  of  my  lan- 
guage, or  the  vehemence  of  my  manner.  My  provocation  is 
great.  1 1  have  had  wrongs  which  might  stir  a  fever  in  the 
blood  of  age,. and  make  the  infant  sinew  strong  as  steel.1  Is  it 
nothing  that  there  is  a  conspiracy  on  foot  against  me  ?  Is  it 
nothing  that  the  flowers  have  determined  to  remain  in  their 
native  bowers,  and  the  gems  on  their  native  bed,  and  never  to 
bloom  or  sparkle  but  for  themselves  alone  ?  Profound  is  my 
sorrow,  and  vast  my  indignation.  Listen,  ye  gods  and  god- 
desses, while  I  unfold  the  causes  of  my  grief;  the  efforts  I  have 
made  to  remove  them,  and  urge  you,  with  the  cogency  of  argu- 
ment and  expostulation,  to  aid  me  by  your  counsels,  and  sustain 
me  by  your  power. 

Far  away  are  the  pillars  of  Hercules,  and  distant  is  1  Ultima 
Thule.'  More  distant  than  all,  and  where  the  sun  sinks  to  his 
rest,  lies  the  home  of  the  lovely  and  true.  Visit  it,  all  ye  who 
love  fair  fields,  bright  eyes,  and  cold  hearts.  Here  lies  the 
cause  of  my  grief.  Here  rebellion  is  rife — organized,  consoli- 
dated rebellion.  Here  a  society  has  been  formed  against  me, 
and  officers  chosen,  and  the  nymphs,  Amazon-like,  with  panoply 
and  championess,  are  now  marching  against  me  under  the  waving 
standards  of  defiance.  Full  many  a  shaft  have  I  launched;  full 
many  a  knight  have  I  sent  against  them.  With  lance  in  rest, 
and  in  full  career,  dashed  my  crested  champions  to  the  shock  ; 
but, 

1  Heu  pietas !  heu  prisca  fides !  invicta  que  bello  dextra.' 

Crested  helm  has  fallen,  and  rider  and  steed  have  bit  the  dust. 
Pierced  through  and  through,  sank  to  their  rest  the  noble  and 
the  brave.  '  They  have  slept  their  last  sleep,  they  have  fought 
their  last  battle,'  and  no  bard  celebrates  their  deeds,  and  no 
requiem  is  chanted  over  them  as  they  lie  all  cold  on  the  bed 
of  honor.    Peace  to  the  shades  of  the  mighty  departed  1 


28 


THE  SOMNAMBULE. 


Time  would  fail  me  to  tell  all  the  measures  I  have  taken 
against  my  enemies.  I  have  become  Protean-formed.  I  have 
gone  against  them  in  many  a  legend,  and  ballad,  and  lay  of  the 
gifted  minstrel,  and  tale  of  the  olden  time.  Eomance  kindle3 
the  imagination,  and  poetry  softens  the  soul  to  love.  I  have 
gone  in  dreams  and  visions  of  the  night.  Then,  from  the  dim 
dream-land  came  to  the  maiden  fairy  forms  of  grace  and  fascina- 
tion, and  poured  the  gush  of  music,  and  breathed  the  air  of  Araby 
the  blessed.  There  were  lovers  wandering  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
and  '  soft  eyes  that  looked  love  to  eyes  that  spake  again,'  and  the 
trembling  utterances  of  a  full  and  deathless  affection,  and  cheeks 
that  touched,  and  hands  that  clasped,  and  vows  of  eternal  con- 
stancy, and  moments  big  with  the  very  '  life  of  life '  of  young 
hearts,  and  sad  partings,  and  a  meeting  never  to  part  again, 
and  long  bright  day  of  wedded  happiness  such  as  the  gods 
award  to  beauty  and  to  virtue.  The  morning  dawned,  the 
visions  fled,  and  the  maiden  awoke.  The  maiden  awoke  '  with 
the  rose  in  her  cheek,  and  the  dew  in  her  eye;'  but  still  the 
championess  is  leading,  and  the  nymphs  are  marching,  and  the 
standards  are  floating  in  the  1  home  of  the  beautiful  and  true/ 

All,  all  is  in  vain.  I  have  tried  the  combat  and  have  fallen. 
I  have  tried  stratagem  and  have  failed.  And  never  more  on 
field  or  flood,  in  hall  or  lady's  bower,  shall  I  lift  the  foot  or 
shake  the  wing  till  Olympus  rises  to  my  aid,  and  Jupiter  thun- 
ders before  me  the  mandate  of  dispersion. 

But  I  must  close.  Brief  has  been  my  statement  of  facts, 
and  brief  must  be  my  appeal  for  aid.  Oh  !  many  and  strong 
are  my  claims  upon  you.  Celestial  is  my  birth  and  lineage. 
From  age  to  age  I  have  dwelt  among  you.  Not  a  god  or  god- 
dess but  will  testify  that  my  sceptre  is  of  the  olive  branch,  and 
my  chains  of  roses.  I  am  the  parent  of  beautiful  smiles  and 
blushes,  of  gentle  tones  and  furtive  glances,  of  electric  thrills  of 
pleasure,  and  the  sweet  charities  of  home.  I  give  to  flowers 
their  language,  and  fill  the  forest  glade  with  the  1  sweet  wood- 
notes  wild.'  I  give  to  dress  its  elegance,  to  manners  their  polish, 
to  society  its  refinement.  I  give  to  beauty  a  protector,  to  weak- 
ness a  strong  arm  on  which  to  lean,  to  the  flower  the  stem 
around  which  it  may  entwine  itself,  and  the  wind  of  heaven  dare 
not  visit  it  too  roughly,  or  slander  speak  against  it,  when  I  am 
by.    I  preside  over  joyous  youth,  and  the  eye  sparkles,  and  the 


THE  SOMNAMBULE. 


29 


blood  dances  at  my  presence.  I  am  the  nurse  of  chivalry — I 
am  the  very  fountain  and  life  of  belles  lettres.  Poets  pour 
libations  to  me,  and  genius  offers  whole  hecatombs  upon  my 
altar.  Grave  philosophy,  too,  sooner  or  later,  acknowledges  my 
merit,  and  bows  at  my  shrine.  I  spread  the  sails  of  enterprise 
— I  prompt  the  scholar  to  his  deeds  of  deathless  fame.  He 
seeks  to  deck  the  jewel  of  his  heart  with  jewels  of  the  mind, 
and  pants  for  glory  and  the  laurel  that  he  may  lay  them  at  the 
feet  of  her  he  loves. 

In  a  word,  sixty  hoar  centuries  send  up  their  testimony  from 
the  abyss  of  the  past,  and,  with  mighty  and  emphatic  voice, 
appeal  to  you  in  my  behalf,  as  they  attest  the  blessings  of  my 
reign.  The  sands  are  wasting,  the  moments  are  flying,  and  the 
council  will  soon  be  over.  I  read  your  countenances,  and  I 
anticipate  your  decision.  1  Coming  events  cast  their  shadows 
before.'  Eebellion  is  crushed,  and  vindicated  is  the  glory  of 
my  ancient  monarchy. 

*  lam  redit  et  virgo ;  redeunt  Saturnia  regna.' " 

The  orator  ceased.  Profound  silence  reigned  in  the  assembly. 
It  was  the  silence  of  a  few  moments  only.  A  low  murmur 
arose,  and  spread  itself  gradually  into  a  universal  din  of  voices. 
Then  came  a  lull.  Again  swelled  the  chorus  of  confusion — 
louder  and  louder — obstreperous  Mars  leading  off  with  brazen 
throat  and  clanging  shield — louder  and  louder — fiercer  and 
fiercer — what  a  tempest !  Can  none  constrain  to  order  the  toss- 
ing conclave !  I  raised  my  eye  timidly  to  the  seat  of  Jupiter, 
and  lo  !  the  Thunderer,  with  flushed  face  and  straining  muscle, 
poising  a  bolt  for  the  far  Occident.  My  eyes  instinctively  closed 
as  they  caught  the  incipient  flash — a  stunning  roar  as  of  a 
mighty  park  of  artillery  succeeded,  and  

I  awoke.  The  last  echoes  of  thunder  were  dying  in  my  ear. 
The  rain  pattered  against  the  window,  and  the  winds  shrieked 
around  the  angles  and  shutters  and  giant  elms  of  the  old  dwell- 
ing. On  my  table  lay  an  open  Odyssey,  and  between  its  leaves 
a  narrative  of  the  progress  of  the  order  of  the  Sisters  of  Charity 
in  the  United  States.  My  right  hand  held  a  pen  over  a  sheet 
of  freshly  written  manuscript.    Then  I  knew  myself  a  Somnam- 

BULE. 


THE  DISH  OF  MUSHEOOMS. 

[FROM  THE    FRENCH   OF  MARIE  AYCARD.] 


BY  MRS.  ST.  SIMON. 

During  the  latter  days  of  the  carnival,  M.  Aubertin,  a  rich 
banker,  who  had  long  since  retired  from  business,  was  seated 
at  his  fireside  with  his  friend,  M.  de  Marans.  It  was  near  mid- 
night. They  had  left  a  gay  company  in  the  saloon,  where  much 
had  been  said  of  the  ball  at  the  opera,  and  it  was  supposed 
that  they  were  preparing  to  go  and  spend  an  hour  there.  The 
conversation  soon  grew  animated  between  the  two  old  men. 

"  My  dear  Aubertin,"  said  M.  de  Marans,  "  I  cannot  under- 
stand the  obstinacy  with  which  you  oppose  your  son's  marriage 
with  Mademoiselle  de  Moeris ;  she  is  an  admirable  young  girl, 
she  has  a  considerable  fortune,  and,  on  the  score  of  family,  there 
is  nothing  to  be  desired.    They  love  each  other,  and  " 

"  It  is  not  I,  my  friend,  who  oppose  this  marriage ;  it  is 
Madame  Aubertin." 

"  I  know  it ;  but  what  are  her  reasons  ?" 

"  Ah,  ha !"  said  the  husband,  "  reasons  !  reasons  !  Why,  you 
know  very  well  that  she  will  give  none." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Aubertin  ;  you  are  a  prudent  and  reasonable 
man  ;  you  have  always  been  so.  I  have  never  observed  but 
one  fault  in  you  ;  a  fault,  it  is  true,  which  has  often  obscured 
your  good  qualities,  and  one  which,  at  our  age,  ought  to  have 
disappeared — I  mean  jealousy." 

"  Ah,  jealous  !  I  am  no  longer  so.  Why,  you  see,  my  wife 
is  preparing  to  go  to  the  ball  at  the  opera,  and  I  do  not  think 
of  accompanying  her." 

"  I  should  hope  so,  indeed  ;  why,  she  is  fifty  years  of  age ;  I 
do  not  think  you  still  jealous.  I  am  ready  to  acknowledge  that 
you  have  corrected  this  folly.    I  would  merely  remind  you  that 


THE  DISH  OF  MUSHROOMS. 


31 


you  have  harbored  it  for  twenty  years,  at  least,  and  that  this 
protracted  jealousy  has  been  a  proof  of  your  love." 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  very  fond  of  my  wife." 

"  This  fondness,"  replied  M.  de  Marans,  "  which  I  am  far 
from  finding  fault  with,  has  permitted  Madame  Aubertin  to 
acquire  great  influence  over  you,  and  at  this  present  moment 
she  abuses  it," 

u  You  think  me  very  weak,  then     cried  M.  Aubertin. 

"  So  weak,"  replied  his  friend,  M  that  you  do  not  even  know 
the  motive  of  your  wife's  refusal." 

"  Who  has  told  you  so  ?" 

"  You,  yourself;  but  if  you  do  know  it,  let  me  hear  it,  and 

if  it  is  reasonable  " 

"  It  is  very  reasonable." 
"  Let  us  hear." 

"You  will  laugh,  still  you  will  see  that  she  could  not  act 
otherwise  than  she  does,  and  that  I,  for  my  part,  have  not  the 
slightest  word  to  say  in  the  matter." 

"  What  is  it  then,  if  you  please  ?  wherefore  this  aversion 
which  nothing  seems  to  justify  ?" 

"  It  is  on  account  of  a  dish  of  mushrooms." 

M.  de  Marans  pushed  back  his  chair ;  he  gazed  at  his  friend 
attentively,  as  if  he  were  seeking  in  his  eyes  for  some  tokens 
of  mental  derangement.  M.  Aubertin's  glance  was  mild  and 
tranquil,  although  somewhat  embarrassed. 

"  A  dish  of  mushrooms  ?"  said  M.  de  Marans,  in  extreme 
astonishment. 

"Yes,  a  dish  of  mushrooms." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  M.  de  Marans,  "  let  us  speak  seriously. 
You  are  jesting." 

"  By  no  means.  You  know  that  it  is  my  favorite  dish,  and 
that  it  is  not  only  disagreeable  to  my  wife's  palate,  but  injurious 
to  her  stomach ;  she  can  scarcely  bear  to  see  it  on  the  table,  and 
she  would  die  of  hunger  rather  than  touch  it." 

"I  know  that,  but  I  do  not  see  what  connection  " 

"  It  was  necessary  to  remind  you  of  this,  before  relating,  as 
I  am  about  to  do,  that  which  occurred  in  my  family  nearly 
twenty-two  years  ago." 

"  At  the  time  when  you  were  jealous  ?" 

"  Precisely.    My  wife  was  then  twenty  years  of  age,  and  I 


32 


THE  DISH  OF  MUSHROOMS. 


was  still  in  business.    "We  received  much  company;  M.  de 

Moeris  came  very  often  " 

"The  father  of  the  young  girl  whom  your  son  wishes  to 
espouse  ?" 

"  The  same.  If  you  knew  him  at  that  time,  you  must  re- 
member that  he  was  a  handsome  fellow,  agreeable,  intelligent, 
and  one  whose  attentions  were  well  calculated  to  excite  jealousy. 
So  I  was  jealous  !" 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  M.  de  Marans;  "I  recognise  you  there, 
my  friend  ;  I  would  wager  that  this  jealousy  had  no  reasonable 
foundation,  and  that  you  took  the  phantoms  of  your  disordered 
brain  for  realities." 

"  You  would  lose,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  made  such  a  wager." 

"  I  defy  you  to  prove  it." 

"  Nothing  is  easier." 

M.  Aubertin  rose,  and  approaching  the  wall  of  the  apart- 
ment, struck  it  with  the  back  of  his  hand ;  it  sounded  hollow. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  "  that  there  was  a  certain  Dionysius 
at  Syracuse,  who  resorted  to  a  similar  means  to  learn  his  friends' 
secrets  ;  a  king  of  England  has  imitated  his  example,  and  this 
hiding-place  was  called  the  king's  ears ;  I  have  copied  after  these 
two  personages ;  I  have  had  my  ears." 

"  Indeed !" 

"  Yes,  some  time  ago,  during  the  first  years  of  my  marriage, 
I  caused  a  small  closet  to  be  made  yonder,  the  existence  of 
which  was  suspected  by  no  one,  and  in  which  all  that  is  said  in 
this  chamber  can  be  heard  with  the  utmost  distinctness.  A 
secret  door,  carefully  concealed  from  view,  gave  me  admission, 
and  when  they  thought  me  at  a  distance,  I  was  near." 

"  What  indelicacy  !  Aubertin,  I  did  not  think  you  capable 
of  it." 

"  You  are  right ;  I  do  not  seek  to  excuse  it.  But  remember 
that  I  had  a  pretty  wife — that  I  was  jealous — and  that  I  am 
relating  to  you  the  story  of  a  dish  of  mushrooms.  Besides,  I 
assure  you,  it  is  now  more  than  ten  years  since  I  have  set  foot 
in  that  closet ;  of  late,  indeed,  I  perceive  that  I  have  lost  the 
key  to  it;  how  long  I  do  not  know.  "Well,  I  could  thus  watch, 
at  my  pleasure,  the  progress  of  M.  de  Moeris'  passion,  and  of 
his  success  with  my  wife.  Day  by  day,  I  heard  the  lover  grow 
more  tender — my  wife  oppose — at  first,  her  love  for  me  ;  then, 


THE  DISH  OF  MUSHROOMS. 


33 


her  duties,  her  affection  for  her  son — the  same  one  whose  mar- 
riage with  Mademoiselle  de  Moeris  she  opposes  so  violently  to- 
day. Madame  Aubertin  spoke  of  her  reputation,  which  would 
be  blasted  by  a  fault,  of  the  regret,  the  agitation,  the  remorse 
which  follows  the  slightest  deviation  from  the  path  of  duty, 
while  M.  de  Moeris  vowed  eternal  love ;  he  offered  her  his  for- 
tune, his  life ;  he  wished  to  elope  with  her — to  take  her  to  the 
world's  end — and  swore  that  he  would  love  her  as  devotedly 
in  old  age  as  he  did  at  that  very  moment.  One  day,  at  last,  his 
passion  knew  no  bounds ;  it  broke  out  in  reproaches  against 
her  insensibility ;  and  Madame  Aubertin  told  him,  in  a  voice 
interrupted  by  sobs,  that  she  could  not  reveal  to  him  the  secrets 
of  her  heart,  but  that  perhaps  he  had  little  reason  for  complaint, 
and  that  it  was  possible  he  was  not  the  only  unhappy  one ;  in  a 
word,  she  gave  him  to  understand  that  I  was  the  sole  obstacle 
to  her  happiness,  and  that  but  for  me,  she  would  be  well  pleased 
to  reward  so  much  love  and  devotion.' 
u  Indeed  !"  cried  M.  de  Marans. 

u  It  was  thus,  at  least,  that  M.  de  Moeris  understood  her," 
continued  M.  Aubertin.  "  He  then  exclaimed  that  I  had  been 
created  to  render  him  the  most  wretched  of  mankind ;  that,  but 
for  me,  his  life  would  glide  on  sweetly  and  happily,  and,  although 
he  did  not  venture,  doubtless,  to  express  all  the  hatred  which 
he  felt  towards  me,  nor  to  utter,  in  precise  terms,  the  charitable 
wish  to  see  my  widow  wear  mourning,  yet  he  said  so  much,  that 
Madame  Aubertin  checked  him  by  reminding  him  that  I  was 
her  husband,  and  that  these  were  words  and  wishes  to  wmich 
she  could  not  listen.  The  two  separated  in  sadness,  and  I  left 
my  hiding  place.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  My  rival  was  beloved, 
or  at  least,  on  the  point  of  being  so.  Never  did  a  jealous  hus- 
band find  himself  in  a  position  so  annoying  as  mine  ;  informed 
of  all,  yet  the  manner  in  which  I  had  surprised  the  secret  pre- 
vented me  from  speaking.  I  cursed  my  stratagem ;  I  would 
have  thrown  my  key  into  the  river,  but  alas!  I  knew  too  much 
not  to  be  sure  that  I  would  have  ordered  another  to  be  made 
on  the  morrow !  I  thought  of  challenging  M.  de  Moeris ; 
then  I  rejected  this  idea,  and,  fearful  that  my  wife  might 
yield,  I  resolved  to  quit  Paris — to  carry  her  off  from  him 
before  he  carried  her  off  from  me.  I  passed  the  rest  of  the 
day,  and  the  following  night,  in  a  most  deplorable  condition. 


34 


THE  DISH  OF  MUSHROOMS. 


I  formed  a  thousand  projects,  without  being  able  to  decide 
upon  a  single  one,  and  in  the  morning,  with  a  face  calm  in 
appearance,  and  with  a  constrained  smile  upon  my  lips,  I  met 
my  wife." 

"  And  you  did  not  tell  her  " 

"  I  did  not  say  a  word  to  her ;  you  will  hear  what  passed. 
A  domestic  knocked  at  the  door. 

1  "What  is  it  ?    What  do  you  want  V  I  asked 

*  The  cook,  sir,  wishes  to  speak  with  you,'  said  the  domestic. 

1  The  cook  !  what  can  he  want  of  me  ?  It  is  not  my  business 
to  inspect  his  accounts." 

{  He  has  some  favor  to  ask  of  you,  perhaps,'  said  my  wife. 
'  Go  into  your  own  apartment,  and  admit  him.' 

( I  have  no  secrets  from  you,'  I  replied  to  Madame  Aubertin, 
£  above  all,  with  my  domestics ;  besides,  if  the  cook  has  a  favor 
to  ask,  he  will  prefer,  doubtless,  to  receive  it  at  your  hands 
rather  than  at  mine.    Send  him  up.' 

The  cook  entered,  pale,  trembling,  and  with  that  air  of  mys- 
tery which  announces  some  terrible  accident. 

£  What  has  happened,  Eigaucl  ?'  said  my  wife,  alarmed  at  the 
agitation  of  his  features. 

1  Ah,  madame,'  replied  Eigaud,  with  his  cotton  cap  in  his 
hand,  '  if  you  knew  ' 

1  Speak,  Rigaud  !' 

Rigaud  had  received  an  anonymous  letter,  in  which  he  had 
found  a  bank  note  for  a  thousand  francs,  and  the  promise  of  a 
second  note  of  the  same  amount,  if  he  would  pour  into  a  dish 
of  mushrooms — a  dish  that  he  prepared  for  me  alone — the  con- 
tents of  a  small  phial  which  was  attached  to  the  letter.  He 
was  assured  that  it  would  add  greatly  to  the  flavor  of  the  mush- 
rooms, and  would  be  followed  by  no  inconvenience  either  to 
himself  or  to  any  one  else.  The  honest  fellow  gave  me  the 
letter,  and  drew  the  phial  from  his  pocket.  He  was  well  satis- 
fied that  the  request  could  not  be  an  innocent  one,  since  it  had 
been  made  with  such  mystery,  and  accompanied  with  such  s? 
sum  of  money.  I  took  the  phial,  examined  its  contents,  and 
having  poured  a  few  drops  upon  a  lump  of  sugar,  I  gave  it  tc 
a  small  dog,  of  w7hich  my  wife  was  very  fond.  Scarcely  had 
the  poor  animal  swallowed  the  poisonous  morsel,  when  his  limbs 


THE  DISH  OF  MUSHROOMS. 


35 


stiffened,  his  eyes  rolled  in  his  head,  and  he  fell  dead  upon  the 
carpet. 

1  Oh,  heavens !  it  is  poison !'  exclaimed  my  wife,  and,  throwing 
herself  into  my  arms,  she  deluged  my  face  with  tears. 

The  cook,  motionless  with  fright,  implored  me  to  accompany 
him  to  a  commissary  of  the  police,  that  he  might  make  his 
deposition.  I,  calm  and  quiet,  applauded  Bigaud's  fidelity, 
acknowledged  that  I  owed  my  life  to  him.  and,  placing  in  his 
hands  a  note  for  a  thousand  francs,  to  make  up  for  that  which 
had  been  promised  him,  I  admonished  him  to  be  very  careful 
of  my  dish  of  mushrooms,  which  I  expected  to  eat  with  more 
than  usual  satisfaction,  leaving  him  at  liberty  to  seek  out  a 
magistrate,  and  make  such  a  deposition  as  he  chose.  When 
I  was  alone  with  my  wife,  she  wept,  she  sobbed,  she  over- 
whelmed me  with  marks  of  attachment  and  of  love.  .  I  sim- 
ply told  her  it  appeared  that  I  had  a  mortal  enemy,  but  that 
with  a  loving  wife,  and  surrounded  by  faithful  domestics,  I  had 
nothing  to  fear,  and  I  left  her  to  her  reflections.  Another,  in 
my  place,  would  have  been  curious  to  overhear  the  conversation 
which  would  take  place  at  the  next  interview  between  M.  de 
Moeris  and  my  wife.  For  my  part,  I  knew  Madame  Aubertin 
so  well,  I  had  so  plainly  seen  the  horror  with  which  the  intended 
crime  had  inspired  her,  that  I  was  certain  that  this  interview 
would  not  take  place.  In  truth,  Madame  Aubertin,  terrified 
at  a  passion  so  violent  and  unscrupulous,  arranged  matters  in 
such  a  way  as  to  let  M.  de  Moeris  understand  that  he  would 
not  be  admitted  to  her  presence.  The  latter,  piqued  at  this 
conduct,  grew  weary  of  a  passion  so  poorly  recompensed,  and 
soon  after  married." 

"Ha!"  cried  M.  de  Marans,  "you  have  related  a  horrible 
story;  this  M.  de  Moeris  must  be  a  monster,  and  I  am  no 
longer  astonished  that  Madame  Aubertin  is  unwilling  to  ally 
herself  with  a  man  who  could  have  meditated  such  a  crime. 
But  I  am  surprised  that  you  do  not  share  in  her  aversion  and 
contempt  for  M.  de  Moeris." 

"  For  M.  de  Moeris  !"  replied  Aubertin  :  "  What !  do  you 
think  that  it  was  he  who  tried  to  poison  me  ?" 

"  And  who,  then,  could  it  be  ?" 

"  Why,  I  myself." 

«  How,  you  ?" 


36 


THE  DISH  OF  MUSHROOMS. 


u  Yes,  it  was  I  who  wrote  the  anonymous  letter  to  my  cook, 
and  who  sent  him  the  poison." 
"  You  !  you,  Aubertin  ?" 

"  Certainly.  I  was  jealous,  and  I  knew  what  reason  I  had 
to  be  so ;  M.  de  Moeris,  by  regarding  me  as  the  sole  obstacle 
to  his  happiness,  by  wishing  for  my  death,  suggested  to  me  an 
idea,  which  I  at  once  put  into  execution,  and  which  delivered 
me  from  a  dangerous  rival.  My  wife's  dog  was  killed  by  it, 
and  it  cost  me  two  thousand  francs.  I  do  not  think  that  was 
paying  too  much  to  recover  my  lost  tranquillity." 

"  But  you  have  calumniated  an  honest  man." 

"  I  !  have  I  ever  said  a  word  ?  Has  my  mouth  ever  opened 
to  accuse  him  ?" 

"  You  well  knew  that  your  wife  would  suspect  M.  de  Moeris, 
and  look  upon  him  as  a  poisoner." 

"  That  is  true,  and  it  was  to  produce  this  result  that  I  acted 
as  I  did,  for  what  more  agreeable  news  could  M.  de  Moeris 
hear  than  that  of  my  death  ?  Had  he  not  openly  desired  it  ? 
and  was  not  my  wife  obliged  to  interrupt  him  in  the  midst  of 
his  homicidal  wishss  ?" 

"  True,"  replied  M.  de  Marans ;  "  but  do  you  believe  him 
capable  of  putting  so  base  a  design  into  execution  ?  Because 
he  was  in  love  to  become  a  poisoner  !  Do  you  not  think  that 
he  is  an  honest,  an  honorable  man  ?" 

•'c  Without  doubt." 

"  Why  then  brand  him  with  the  opprobrium  of  a  crime  ?" 

"  Because  I  was  jealous,  and  because  this  passion,  as  violent 
as  love  itself,  is  also  as  blind.  Now,  after  the  lapse  of  twenty 
years,  when  I  no  longer  see  with  the  same  eyes  as  then,  I  blush 
at  my  conduct — I  blame  myself  as  you  blame  me ;.  but  it  is  only 
of  late  that  I  have  thought  thus  ;  so  long  as  I  was  jealous,  I 
approved  of  what  I  had  done ;  now,  the  veil  has  fallen  from 
my  eyes,  still  you  will  comprehend  that  I  can  neither  inform 
my  wife,  nor  disapprove  of  her  views  in  reference  to  this  mar- 
riage." 

"  And  your  son  will  be  unhappy,  Mademoiselle  de  Moeris 
will  not  espouse  the  man  she  loves,"  said  M.  de  Marans,  "  be- 
cause, twenty  years  ago,  you  calumniated  M.  de  Moeris." 

"  But  confess,  my  friend,"  replied  M.  Aubertin,  "  that  this 
calumny,  if  it  were  one,  was  the  most  innocent  imaginable ;  it 


THE  DISH  OF  MUSHROOMS. 


37 


was  restricted  to  a  single  person ;  then,  it  has  prevented  me 
from  being  " 

"Come,  come,  I  know  your  wife;  there  was  no  danger  " 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  apartment  was  opened,  and 
Madame  Aubertin  entered. 

"  Ah  !  you  here,  madame  ?"  said  her  husband,  glancing  at 
the  clock,  which  was  upon  the  point  of  striking  one.  "  I  thought 
that  you  were  at  the  ball" 

"  No,  sA*,"  she  replied,  "  I  begged  my  son  to  escort  thither 
the  ladies  who  passed  the  evening  with  us,  and  I  have  employed 
the  time  in  reflecting  upon  this  marriage  which  is  proposed  to 
us.  I  have  changed  my  opinion,  sir;  I  give  my  consent  to  this 
union;  I  cease  to  oppose  it." 

"Indeed,  madame!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Madame  Aubertin.  "  By  the  bye,  here  is 
a  little  key  which  1  chanced  to  find  some  days  ago — is  it  not 
yours  ?" 

M.  Aubertin  took  the  key,  cast  a  stealthy  glance  upon  it, 
blushed,  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 

"  My  friend,"  said  M.  de  Marans,  "  the  ears  of  Dionysius  of 
Syracuse,  and  of  James  of  England,  have  just  been  turned 
against  you." 

The  husband  hung  his  head ;  after  twenty  years  he  was 
caught  in  the  snare  which  he  had  spread  for  others. 

Fifteen  days  afterward  the  son  of  M.  Aubertin  was  married 
to  Mademoiselle  de  Moeris. 


The  brave  only  know  how  to  forgive.  It  is  the  most  refined 
and  generous  pitch  of  virtue  human  nature  can  arrive  at. 
Cowards  have  done  good  and  kind  actions — cowards  have  even 
fought,  nay,  sometimes  even  conquered,  but  a  coward  never 
forgave.  It  is  not  in  his  nature  ;  the  power  of  doing  it  flows 
only  from  a  strength  and  greatness  of  soul,  conscious  of  its  own 
force  and  security,  and  above  the  little  temptations  of  resenting 
every  fruitless  attempt  to  interrupt  its  happiness. 


THE  LUXURY  OF  DEEP  SORROW. 


Montgomery  once  wrote  a  poem  which  he  denominated  "The 
Joy  of  Grief,"  if  we  mistake  not  its  title,  and  a  very  touching 
thing  it  was,  if  we  have  not  entirely  forgotten  the  impression  it 
made  upon  us  some  twenty  years  ago,  when  we  read  it  for  the 
first  and  last  time.  "We  thought  it  excellent ;  but,  subsequent 
experience  has  taught  us  that  it  by  no  means  reached  the  reali- 
ty of  the  subject.  True  and  touching  as  it  was,  as  far  as  it 
went,  even  Montgomery's  poetry  fell  short — very  far  short — of 
describing  the  feeling  which  is  in  our  mind's  eye.  There  may 
be  "joy  in  grief common  sorrow  may  contain  a  mixture  of 
solace — detached  portions  of  counteracting  consolations  which 
may  not  only  blunt  the  edge  of  affliction, — but  even  furnish  ma- 
terial for  happiness — such  happiness,  at  least,  as  Montgomery 
contemplated.  The  bee  extracts  very  sweet  honey  from  the 
most  unpromising  materials,  and  the  poet  and  the  moralist  have 
the  same  right,  if  they  have  not  the  same  skill.  They  may,  if 
they  can,  make  sorrow  and  sadness  subservient  to  their  mental 
alchymy,  and  cause  even  despondency  itself  to  yield  a  partial 
harvest  of  pleasure  !  In  the  sense,  however,  in  which  the  Eng- 
lish poet  considered  this  matter,  there  may  be  very  grave  doubts. 
He  was  a  poet  merely — very  little  of  a  philosopher.  "We  are 
philosophers,  and  we  intend  to  give  an  opinion  on  this  subject 
that  will  prove  us  so.  Sorrow  has  its  luxury.  The  man  who 
has  struggled,  for  years,  with  the  adverse  currents  of  human 
life,  who  has  breasted  the  billows  of  misfortune,  and  met  the 
stormiest  times  which  life's  navigator  is  fated  to  encounter, 
knows  as  we  know,  that  even  misery,  itself,  has  its  store-house 
of  comforts.  He  whose  struggles  have  finally  succumbed  to 
the  resistlessness  of  ill  fortune,  can  bear  us  witness  that  there 
is  luxury  left  to  despondency  !  There  is  enjoyment,  even  in 
retiring  into  the  concentration  of  the  heart's  last  and  lowliest 
abyss  of  bitterness  !  When  a  man  can  no  longer  remain  cheer- 
ful upon  his  bright  prospects,  it  is  a  blessed  portion  of  his  des- 
tiny that  he  may  gather  comforts  from  the  mere  intensity  of 
those  that  are  blighted  !  He  may  retire  into  himself,  and  luxurate 
upon  the  miseries  which,  being  impossible  to  become  worse, 


THE  LUXURY  OF  DEEP  SORROW. 


39 


ought,  by  all  means,  to  become  better ;  if  it  be  true,  as  we  be- 
lieve it  is,  that  fate  is  always  locomotive,  and  never  stands  still. 
He  who  has  satisfied  himself  that  his  fortune  is  at  zero,  may 
rationally  enough  make  up  his  mind  that  there  is  little  use  in 
caring  for  it  when  it  goes  below.  After  freezing  to  death  amid 
the  snows  and  frosts  of  life,  who  would  care  much  about  the 
posthumous  freaks  of  Fahrenheit?  Who  will  give  himself 
much  trouble  as  to  the  temperature,  after  it  has  made  an  icicle 
of  him  ?  A  frozen  heart  is  precisely  upon  a  par  with  a  frozen 
potato,  and  one  is  worth  just  as  much  as  the  other. 

But,  we  repeat,  that  there  is  a  point  in  human  feeling — and 
the  heart  reaches  it  before  its  throbbings  are  quite  congealed — 
in  which  even  its  very  woes  assume  the  office  of  the  soother  ! — 
Their  intensity  reacts  upon  itself,  and  while  the  demon  of  dis- 
traction seems  to  revel  in  the  belief  that  he  has  utterly  pros- 
trated his  victim,  the  victim  rises  superior  to  his  inflictions,  and 
gathers  consolation  from  them  !  There  is  "  luxury  in  deep  sor- 
row"— there  is  happiness  even  amidst  the  heapings  up  of  calami- 
ty. Let  Misfortune  do  her  worst ;  if  she  bring  not  the  con- 
sciousness of  crime  or  dishonor  to  her  aid,  her  victim  may  defy 
her  !  "Who  has  ever  looked  into  himself  during  the  season  of 
deep  depression,  studied  the  causes  of  it,  and  studying  them, 
been  able  to  absolve  himself  from  blame  that  they  have  come 
upon  him,  without  finding  a  feeling  worth  all  the  self-compla- 
cency of  the  fortunate,  the  proud  and  the  rich  ?  Who,  in  such 
a  scene  buries  himself  in  the  contemplation  of  those  he  loves, 
and  of  the  unremitted  exertions  he  has  made  to  deserve  that 
love,  but  finds  a  loftier  and  holier  feeling  than  wealth  or  pride 
or  prosperity  ever  yet  could  bring  him  ?  That  fate  is  unpro- 
pitious  he  knows — that  he  has  done  all  in  his  power  to  deserve 
a  better  fate,  he  knows  also,  and  in  that  lies  the  secret  of  the 
luxury  which  even  grief  can  pluck  from  its  direst  visitations. 
There  is  the  heart  furnished  with  rays  of  sunshine  from  the 
sombre  atmosphere  with  which  its  own  misfortunes  have  sur- 
rounded it.  There  rises  the  rainbow  of  hope  over  the  horizon 
of  despair,  and  there,  are  dispensed  the  ministrations  of  conso- 
lation wnich  the  good  angels  of  man's  destiny  throw  through 
the  gloom  with  which  the  bad  have  overshadowed  it.  In  one 
word,  when  the  heart  feels  itself  verging  fastest  towards  utter 
despondency,  let  it  take  courage ;  it  will  soon  find  itself  at  the 
point  where  there  is  "  Luxury  in  deep  Sorrow.'1''         c.  f.  d. 


CHERISHED  TOKENS. 


CHEEISHED  TOKENS. 


1  have  a  bird — a  lovely  bird, 

With  saffron  color'd  wings, 
And  when  the  blessed  morning  breaks, 

Ah,  me  !  how  sweet  it  sings ! 
He  perches  on  the  window,  where 

It  looks  upon  the  sea, 
And  oh  !  his  every  note  is  soft 

As  melody  can  be. 

I  have  a  tree — a  scented  tree, 

Brought  from  far  southern  bowers ; 
And  every  month  it  bears  for  me 

A  coronal  of  flowers. 
Though  fragile  be  that  wreath  it  weaves, 

And  soon  its  bloom  be  past, 
'Tis  sweet  to  watch  the  opening  leaves, 

And  love  them  while  they  last. 

I  have  a  lute — a  deep-toned  lute, 

With  chords  of  magic  thrill ; 
And  when  at  night  the  birds  are  mute, 

And  winis  and  waves  are  still, 
(Sometimes  even  by  daylight's  hour,) 

It  sings,  or  seems  to  sing 
Such  wild  sad  strains,  I've  almost  though 

An  angel  touch'd  its  string. 

I  have  a  braid — a  silken  braid 

Of  softest  flaxen  hair, 
With  clasp,  which  part  of  gold  is  made, 

And  part  a  jewel  rare. 
They  say  the  gold  is  thrice  refined, 

And  costlier  far  the  gem, 
And  yet  the  simple  lock  they  bind, 

I  value  more  than  them. 

And  I  have— ah,  me  !— how  little  priz'd 

Of  all  my  cherished  things — 
Hid  in  my  bosom's  deepest  nook, 

A  heart  of  passion's  strings. 
I  have — no,  no,  I  have  it  not — 

It  once  was  in  that  cell — 
But  now  I  fear,  'tis  flown  away, 

Whither — I  may  not  tell. 


MARTHA  WASHINGTON. 


BY   GRACE  GRAFTON. 


In  the  bright  galaxy  of  female  worthies,  there  is  one  name 
to  which  every  American  woman  turns  with  even  more  of 
fond  affection  than  of  respectful  admiration.  It  is  the  name 
of  Martha  Washington— the  beloved  and  honored  wife  of 
the  Father  of  his  country  ;  of  him  who  was  "first  in  war, 
first  in  peace,  and  first  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen." 
The  distinction  was  an  enviable  one  which  made  her  the 
chosen  of  his  heart  and  the  sharer  of  his  fame ;  but  it  was 
wTell-merited  by  personal  excellencies  on  her  part,  which 
have  seldom  been  equalled. 

Eminently  beautiful  in  form  and  features — descended 
from  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  the  Old  Dominion — and 
allied  by  both  her  marriages  to  others  not  less  distinguish- 
ed— this  illustrious  woman  might  seem  to  have  formed  a 
shining  mark  for  the  shafts  of  envy  and  detraction  ;  but  she 
bore  her  honors  so  meekly — her  native  firmness  and  dignity 
were  so  tempered  with  winning  softness  and  feminine  deli- 
cacy, and  her  refinement  of  manners  with  unaffected  bene- 
volence— that  envy  stood  abashed  in  her  presence,  and  de- 
traction turned  away  from  the  sight  of  excellencies  it  could 
not  depreciate.  Her  character  was  one  of  deep  sensibility 
and  strong  passions,  but  it  was  sensibility  guided  by  judg- 
ment, and  passion  controlled  by  reason  and  religion.  In  her, 
the  sorrowful,  the  timid,  and  the  erring,  found  a  sympa- 
thizing friend  and  a  judicious  counsellor — for  she  felt  that 
her  "  mission  on  earth  was  to  pity  and  to  heal,  and  believed 
that  the  strongest  and  purest  have  within  them  the  germs 
of  those  frailties  which  conquer  the  weak."  The  heart  of 
her  husband  safely  trusted  in  her — and,  amid  all  the  cares 


42 


MARTHA  WASHINGTON. 


and  trials  of  public  life,  never,  during  his  whole  eventful 
career,  was  he  disappointed  in  his  reliance  on  her  wisdom, 
her  prudence,  or  her  affection. 

But  it  is  not  as  the  high-born  and  courtly  belle  of  the 
drawing-room — not  as  the  admired  and  envied  wife  of  the 
hero  and  the  statesman,  that  I  wish  to  present  Martha 
Washington  to  the  attention  of  my  young  countrywomen. 
It  was  the  crowning  excellence  of  her  character  as  a  woman, 
that  she  possessed,  in  rare  perfection,  those  domestic  virtues 
which  render  home  an  earthly  paradise.  She  was  formed 
to  be  the  ornament  of  society — but  at  an  early  age,  she 
retired  from  its  noise  and  glitter,  into  the  calm  privacy  of 
domestic  life,  and  there,  as  the  idolized  mistress,  the  tender 
mother,  and  the  fond  and  faithful  wife,  her  days  were  filled 
up  with  duty  and  usefulness.  In  all  the  details  of  household 
economy  she  was  an  adept ;  and  if  she  was,  beyond  dispute, 
a  lady  in  the  parlor,  she  was  equally  so  in  that  terra  incog- 
nita to  most  fashionable  ladies — the  kitchen.  Her  skilful 
management  and  efficient  control  were  felt  throughout 
every  part  of  her  extensive  establishment ;  and  during  the 
long  absences  from  home  which  her  husband's  public  station 
rendered  necessary,  she  sustained  the  additional  load  of  care 
thus  thrown  upon  her,  with  an  ease  and  cheerfulness  that 
knew  no  variation  and  no  abatement.  The  accomplish- 
ments of  Martha  Washington  were  not,  like  those  of  too 
many  at  the  present  day,  "  kept  for  show,"  and  worn  only 
in  the  presence  of  company.  They  were  made  to  contribute 
to  the  happiness  of  all  around  her,  and,  like  the  rich  setting 
of  a  diamond,  only  gave  additional  beauty  to  a  character 
whose  sterling  value  they  could  not  materially  enhance. 

There  are  comparatively  few  who  possess  the  proud  but 
dangerous  gift  of  genius — and  to  the  multitudes  wljo  have 
no  such  distinction,  I  would  say,  Martha  Washington  was 
not  "a  genius;"  but  she  possessed  what  is  in  reality  more 
valuable — good  common  sense,  and  intellect  sufficient  to 
direct  it  in  the  very  best  manner  to  all  the  practical  purposes 
of  life  ;  reasoning  powers,  strengthened  by  a  thorough  course 
,of  mental  discipline;  and,  above  all,  that  genuine  piety 


MARTHA  WASHINGTON. 


43 


which  led  her  to  forget  herself,  in  seeking  the  glory  of  God 
and  the  happiness  of  her  fellow-beings.  Her  own  character 
was  one  of  transparent  simplicity,  and  truth  and  candor 
were  impressed  on  every  line  of  her  speaking  countenance. 
Hers,  in  an  eminent  degree,  was  that  charity  which  "  think- 
eth  no  evil,"  for  though  she  usually  read  character  accurate- 
ly, it  was  strictly  true  in  her  case,  that — 

"  Oft  though  Wisdom  wake,  Suspicion  sleeps 
At  Wisdom's  gate,  and  to  Simplicity 
Resigns  her  charge  ;  while  Goodness  thinks  no  ill, 
Where  no  ill  seems." 

Is  the  character  I  have  faintly  and  imperfectly  sketched, 
winning  and  attractive  to  my  youthful  readers  ?  It  is  indeed 
one  of  rare  symmetry,  but  there  are  about  it  no  points  of 
unattainable  excellence  to  discourage  all  attempts  at  imi- 
tation. The  guileless  simplicity,  the  warm  and  generous 
sympathies,  the  untiring  energy,  the  lofty  purpose,  and  the 
consistent  piety  of  Martha  Washington,  are  virtues  that  may 
be  cultivated  by  the  humblest  daughter  of  the  land  which 
gave  her  birth.  Let  woman  be  but  true  to  herself — to  her 
nature  and  her  destinies ;  let  her  dare  to  break  away  from 
the  slavery  of  fashion  and  the  allurements  of  pleasure,  and 
seek  her  happiness  in  the  path  of  duty  alone — then  would 
every  household  be  blessed  with  a  presiding  spirit  such  as 
Martha  Washington,  and  the  purifying  influences  of  home 
flow  out  in  streams  of  life  and  blessing  through  the  land. 

"  After  the  death  of  her  illustrious  companion,  which  oc« 
curred  in  December,  1799,  she  remained  at  Mount  Vernon, 
where  she  spent  seventeen  months  mourning  her  loss,  receiv- 
ing the  visits  of  the  great  from  all  parts  of  our  land  and 
from  various  parts  of  the  earth ;  attending,  as  heretofore, 
to  her  domestic  concerns,  perfecting  in  the  Christian  graces, 
and  ripening  for  the  joys  of  a  holier  state  of  being.  On  the 
22d  of  May,  1801,  she  who,  while  on  earth,  could  be  placed 
in  no  station  which  she  did  not  dignify  and  honor,  was  wel- 
comed to  the  glories  of  another  world." 

"  She  healed  the  hearts  of  the  sorrowful,  while  living, 
and  broke  them  when  she  died  !" 


A  WORD  FITLY  SPOKEN,  HOW  GOOD  IT  IS! 


Little  things  make  up  the  sum  of  human  existence. 
In  the  natural  world,  objects,  animate  and  inanimate,  are 
composed  of  particles.  Innumerable  shining  sands  form  the 
barrier  against  which  old  Ocean  loves  to  fret.  Crystal  drops 
compose  the  vast  extent  of  water  which  covers  nearly  three- 
fourths  of  our  globe.  The  "  blessed  light,"'  which  cheers  us 
day  by  day,  may  be  separated  into  an  infinite  number  of 
rays,  each  blending  with  its  neighbor  while  faithfully  per- 
forming its  work.  And  the  rich  odors,  so  grateful  to  the 
senses,  which  float  in  our  atmosphere,  are  actually  tiny  atoms, 
escaping  from  the  dewy  petals  of  the  rose  or  lily,  which 
blossoms  at  our  feet.  Meet  emblems  are  those  odors — float- 
ing round  us  all  unseen — of  the  influence  of  "fitly  spoken" 
words. 

Words  are  among  the  "little  things"  which  determine 
our  influence  for  good  or  ill. 

Speak  they  of  sympathy,  or  encouragement,  or  reproof? 
If  so  be  they  are  spoken  kindly,  they  are  like  "apples  of  gold 
in  pictures  of  silver." 

Would  you  have  influence  with  those  who  look  to  you 
for  guidance  and  instruction  ?  Bear  with  you  the  law  of 
kindness.  Would  you  command  their  respect?  Let  your 
words,  though  they  inflict  pain  for  the  time,  drop  kindly 
from  your  lips. 

The  youthful  heart,  however  hopeful,  will  sometimes  be 
depressed,  discouraged.  Then  a  single  word,  if  it  be  "  fitly 
spoken,"  will,  like  the  magician's  wand,  work  wonders.  The 
child  has  his  troubles  as  well  as  the  man,  and  they  are  as 
hard  for  him  to  bear,  therefore  he  needs  words  of  sympathy  ; 
for  it  is  the  wonderful  virtue  of  sympathy  to  lessen  grief — 
and  the  troubled  spirit  soothed,  will  rouse  again  its  energies, 
and  toil  on  as  before. 


LIGHT    AND  DARKNESS. 


BOOK  I. 

"Into  ray  heart  a  silent  look 

Flashed  from  thy  careless  eyes — 
And  what  before  was  shadow,  took 

The  light  of  summer  skies. 
The  first-born  love  was  in  that  look; 
The  Venus  rose  from  out  the  deep  ; 

Of  those  inspiring  eyes!" 

FLORENCE  WARNER. 

A  story  of  Light  and  Darkness,  for  these  are  life ;  and 
they  change  in  the  heaven  of  the  human  heart  when  we 
least  expect  it  and  are  least  prepared  for  it.  But  there  are 
stars  for  the  sudden  darkness,  although  many  perceive  them 
not — stars,  which  bring  warmth  and  light  and  beauty  back 
to  us  again ;  and  he  who  finds  them  does  not  heed  the 
gloom,  for  they  burn  in  the  inner  chamber  of  the  soul — 
those  stars  of  hope  and  faith  ! 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  Burkes  to-night?"  inquired  Tom 
Marchmont  of  Cecil  Grey. 

"  No,"  said  Cecil,  "  I  am  tired  of  parties,  with  their  rows 
of  young  ladies  and  their  files  of  young  gentlemen — their 
thirteen  cotillions  and  two  waltzes — their  liquid  ice-creams 
and  their  flat  champagne.    I'll  have  none  of  them  !" 

"But  you  must  go  to  this  affair.  You'll  see  Florence 
Warner." 

"And  who  may  Florence  Warner  be? — a  sweetly-spoken, 
prettily-behaved  inanity  like  the  rest  of  them  ? — fair  and 
insipid  as  the  blanc-mange  she  eats  ?" 

"  Do  you  remember  the  eyes  you  praised  en-passant  yes- 
terday?" 

"  With  refreshing  distinctness,"  said  Cecil. 
"  Well,  they  belong  to  Miss  Warner. 


46 


LTGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


"  Ah  !  I'll  go  to  the  Burke  concern.    Call  for  me  at  nine.* 

"  That  I  won't !    I  go  with  Miss  Warner." 

"You  do!  I  wish  that  I  did;  but  good  bye!  I'll  find 
the  way  myself." 

So  at  nine  o'clock  Grey  presented  himself  at  the  residence 
of  the  Burkes,  who,  being  merely  good  people — neither  ad- 
mirable nor  ridiculous — will  fill  but  little  of  our  story.  And 
there  he  saw,  oh  !  what  rows  of  nice  young  women,  sitting 
on  a  sofa  or  a  line  of  chairs,  chattering  most  volubly — and 
whenever  a  male  creature  approached,  drawing  up  primly, 
and  saying  "  Yes,  sir,"  and  "  No,  sir,"  with  intense  gravity  ! 
And  there  were  groups  of  young  men,  talking  of  horses  and 
dogs  and  themselves.  And  there  were  one  or  two  sensible 
people,  amusing  themselves  and  each  other. 

Grey  saluted  his  host  and  hostess,  and  then  strolled  through 
the  rooms.  A  knot  of  young  men  were  lounging  near  the 
fireplace.  "  Good  evening,  Mr.  Grey,"  and  "  Good  evening, 
gentlemen,"  drew  Cecil  within  their  circle. 

"  Very  pleasant  here  to-night,"  suggested  Mr.  Joseph  Berg ; 
"  such  an  array  of  beauty — quite  a  galaxy  !"  and  he  smiled 
at  the  fearful  attempt,  for  he  had  very  white  teeth. 

"Q,uite  brilliant,"  said  Cecil;  "and  where  we  find  people 
like  Mr.  Berg,  it  must  always  be  pleasant." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Joseph  ;  "but  I  see  Miss  Warner  has 
dropped  a  glove ;  I  must  go  and  pick  it  up  for  her ;"  and 
away  he  darted. 

"I  wish  supper  were  ready,"  said  Mr.  Staples — the  first 
time  he  had  opened  his  mouth,  which  he  seldom  did,  except 
to  put  something  in  it ! 

But  Cecil  had  turned  to  look  at  Miss  Warner.  Her  dress 
was  simple,  but  every  fold  spoke  of  taste.  The  rich  chestnut 
hair  was  swept  from  a  spiritual  forehead,  and  a  single  ringlet 
curled  behind  the  small  ear.  Her  eyes,  such  as  few  could 
look  upon  without  loving.  To  what  shall  1  liken  those  eyes — 
so  full  of  beauty,  of  intellect,  and  love — so  large,  so  dark, 
so  lustrous !  Just  such  a  pair  haunts  all  my  dreams  Grey 
kept  his  gaze  closely  fixed  upon  her  as  she  conversed  gaily 
with  the  gentleman  on  whose  arm  she  leaned. 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


47 


As  Mr.  Berg  presented  the  glove,  she  thanked  him  with 
a  smile ;  whereupon  he  ventured  to  make  a  remark,  but  she 
drew  herself  up,  looked  at  him  magnificently,  and  continued 
her  conversation.    Cecil's  lip  curled. 

"  Well,  what  think  you  of  our  beauty  ?"  asked  Marchmont. 
joining  him. 

"She  seems  made  to  be  admired,  but  never  to  be  loved," 
said  Cecil ;  "  she  seems  to  me  to  have  that  most  contemptible 
of  all  ambitions,  the  desire  of  being  the  'ball-room  belle,5 
and  queening  it  sublimely  over  empty  fools." 

In  an  instant  he  saw  that  she  had  overheard  him,  for  the 
blood  rushed  over  her  face  and  neck,  and  her  large  eyes  flash- 
ed steadily  upon  him.  Marchmont  saw  the  look,  and  with 
his  usual  recklessness  exclaimed,  "  Miss  Warner,  Mr.  Grey  ! 
the  loveliest  face  that  ever  yet  upon  the  world  hath  shone, 
and  the  greatest  genius,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

And  thus  the  introduction  was  completed.  Cecil  exhibited 
his  best  politeness,  and  the  lady,  haughtily,  moved  to  another 
room.  Afterward,  in  the  dance,  or  wherever  she  moved, 
Cecil  would  detect  himself  following  her  steps.  He  could 
not  keep  his  eyes  from  her. 

And  so,  at  length,  the  dancing  was  over ;  and  the  signal 
for  supper — so  longed  for  by  Mr.  Staples — was  given,  and 
great  was  the  rush  to  the  supper-room.  Alas  for  the  oysters 
and  champagne  !  alas  for  the  creams  and  the  charlotte  russe! 
alas  for  the  chicken  salad  and  the  fruit ! — the  time  of  their 
destruction  was  at  hand  ! 

Cecil  turned  from  the  omnivorous  crowd,  and,  left  alone, 
went  to  look  at  some  prints  which  lay  on  a  table  near  him. 
He  heard  a  step  beside  him,  and  turning,  saw  Florence 
Warner. 

"  And  so,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  Mr.  Grey's  loftiness  scorns 
the  1  queen  of  the  ball-room.'  " 

"I  hope  that  Miss  Warner  will  pardon  my  rudeness.  Let 
her  remember  that  I  had  not  then  spoken  to  her." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  bitterly,  "yes,  you  are  a  true  man,  and 
think  that  a  woman  may  always  be  soothed  by  a  little  flat- 
tery." 


48 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


"  You  will  not,  then,  forgive  my  rudeness  ?" 

"  I  do  not  care  for  the  rudeness,  Mr.  Grey,  but  for  the 
injustice.  And  yet,  why  is  it  so  contemptible  to  aspire  to 
rule — even  in  a  ball-room?  Is  it  not  all  that  you  allow  us? 
I  am  convinced  that  you  would  be  the  first  to  sneer  down 
her  who  sought  a  higher  ambition." 

"It  is  your  turn  to  judge  harshly  now,  Miss  Warner. 
None  assign  to  woman  loftier  or  better  aims  than  I.  To  her 
is  given  up  the  best  of  ambitions,  the  ambition  of  affection." 

"And  who,  sir,  has  taken  from  her  the  right  to  rule? 
Hitherto  in  the  history  of  the  world,  have  the  days  of  her 
empire  over  men  been  unfortunate?  Semiramis,  Zenobia, 
Catherine  di  Medicis,  and  Elizabeth — did  they  govern  less 
worthily  than  men  have  done?" 

"  Add  to  your  list,"  said  Cecil,  "  Cleopatra,  Joanna  of  Na 
pies,  and  Mary  of  Scotland,  and  see  that  queens  have  woman- 
hearts." 

"  The  heart,  the  heart !"  she  said  ;  "  better,  far  better  for 
a  woman  to  forget  that  she  has  a  heart !  The  mind's  king- 
dom is  serener  and  happier  than  affection's." 

"  You  talk  strangely  for  one  so  young,  so  beautiful,  and 
so  idolized." 

"  Youth  and  beauty  ! — and  what  can  they  do  for  a  wo- 
man ?  Nothing  more  than  to  make  her  the  '  idol  of  the 
ball-room '  and  the  scorn  of  such  as  Cecil  Grey  !" 

Cecil  began  to  feel  hurt. 

"  Miss  Warner,"  he  said,  "  you  do  not  treat  me  fairly.  1 
thought  the  desire  contemptible,  and,  ignorant  of  yourself, 
expressed  my  opinion.  But  in  justice  to  you,  I  must  furnish 
you  with  power  to  forget  it.  I  belong  to  a  class  of  men 
whose  opinions  are  to  be  unnoticed,  whose  remarks  met  with 
contempt.  I  am  poor,  lady,  and  therefore  unworthy  of  far- 
ther thought  from  you." 

"Ah!  the  scholar's  pride  is  galled  !"  she  said.  "I  would 
not  have  noticed  your  remark,  Mr.  Grey,  had  I  not  heard 
much  and  often  of  you.  But  why  should  poverty  be  con- 
temptible? God  did  not  make  the  poor  for  scorn.  And  you, 
with  the  spell  of  genius  glowing  on  your  brow,  and  living 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


49 


beautiful  in  your  mind — you,  with  gifts  of  song  and  eloquence, 
I  wonder  that  you  dare  say  it !  It  is  impious  to  say  that 
you  are  poor !  Have  you  no  high  desires,  no  fame  dreams, 
no  hopes  ?" 

He  looked  upon  her  face  so  filled  with  the  beauty  of  her 
soul,  and  thrilled.  But,  as  he  thought  of  her  question,  his 
heart  died  within  him,  and  he  answered  sadly — 

"No — I  have  thought  all  dreams  away.  I  have  suffered 
too  much  to  hope,  and  I  can  only  echo  Byron's  wish — 

1  'Tis  vain  to  struggle — let  me  perish  young — 
Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  have  loved : 
To  dust  if  I  return — from  dust  I  sprung — 

And  then  at  least  my  heart  shall  ne'er  be  moved.' 

No,  lady,  I  am  too  poor  to  hope,  to  dream,  or  to  aspire ;  and 
I  presume  not  when  I  say  so,  for  the  poor  have  at  least  the 
privilege  of  being  sad." 

When  he  raised  his  eyes,  he  saw  that  hers  were  full  of 
tears.  The  sight  was  too  much  for  him — he  lost  his  free- 
dom— his  breath  ceased — his  hands  trembled — and  he  felt 
that  the  poison  of  human  love  was  in  his  heart ! 

"Ah!"  cried  Tom  Marchmont,  coming  into  the  room, 
"  you  two  all  alone !  Pray,  Miss  Warner,  what  have  you 
been  saying  to  my  friend  Cecil  ?" 

"  Giving  him  a  lecture  on  politeness,"  said  Florence,  blush- 
ing a  little. 

"  But  you,  Mr.  Marchmont,  how  have  you  amused  your- 
self?" 

"  Oh  !"  replied  Tom,  "  in  a  great  variety  of  ways.  First, 
in  watching  the  road  down  Mr.  Staples'  throat.  Queer  com- 
panionships the  travelers  that  way  have  I* 

"How  so?"  queried  the  lady. 

"  Why,"  continued  Tom,  "  first,  I  saw  two  oysters  go  down 
with  one  swallow  ;  then  followed  an  ice,  and  a  bit  of  chicken 
slipped  down  on  that.  I  stumbled  over  Berg's  foot — and 
when  he  said  I  was  heavy,  I  said  I  could  not  help  it,  for 
I  had  been  eating  pound  cake.  And  finally,  when  some 
wicked  body  asked  me  to  say  grace,  I  thought  of  you,  and 
murmured — '  Florence  Warner !' " 


50 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


BOOK  II. 

"  But  fir9t  the  signal-pass  they  claim ; 
Ask  who  they  were,  and  whence  they  came — 
Their  home — their  purpose — and  their  name." 

Florence  Warner  was  an  orphan.  She  had  seen  her  pa- 
rents dying  with  the  broken  hearts  of  poverty  ;  and  Florence 
had  resolved  to  crush  the  woman  in  her  heart,  and  be  any- 
thing, no  matter  what ;  cold — heartless — the  coquette — the 
wife  without  love — anything,  rather  than  be  poor. 

Her  mother's  only  sister — long  resident  in  Europe — had 
returned  home  in  time  to  gaze  upon  the  last  struggle  and 
to  save  the  orphan.  With  this  aunt  (Mrs.  Langley)  Florence 
now  lived,  and,  to  the  time  of  our  history,  believed  that  she 
had  forgotten  to  be  a  woman,  and  fancied  that  she  would 
escape  a  woman's  destiny — to  love  and  to  suffer. 

And  Grey,  too,  was  alone  in  the  world.    One  by  one 

 "  the  gems  from  his  household  crown, 

To  the  grave  had  dropp'd  away." 

He  was  a  man  whose  intellectual  power,  although  of  the 
loftiest  order,  was  surpassed  by  his  feelings.  The  heart  in 
him  was  stronger  than  the  mind.  There  is  but  one  way  of 
guiding  this  kind  of  constitution.  Affection,  passion,  and 
feeling  must  become  enslaved  by  one  object ;  and  it.  by  its 
mastery  over  these,  has  power  to  incite  and  direct  the  intel- 
lect. And  now  his  heart  was  filled  by  an  abiding  love  for 
Florence  Warner.  They  had  met  very  frequently  since  their 
introduction,  and  Cecil  Grey  had  become  her  slave;  but  he 
dared  not  ask  her  to  love  him  ;  the  darkness  of  love  without 
hope  was  upon  him — the  darkness  of  poverty  was  upon  him — 
and,  turn  which  way  he  would,  there  was  no  light ! 

And  Tom  Marchmont,  there  was  no  harm  in  him.  He 
was 

"  One  of  those  light  hearts  whose  glee 

Is  never  chill'd ;  whose  life-streams  glide 
Bright  from  their  fountain  to  the  sea, 
With  sunshine  always  on  their  tide : 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


51 


Hearts  whose  light  hopes  burn  on  the  same, 
And  quenchless  as  the  Grecian  flame, 
Though  winds  may  rise,  or  storms  may  fall, 
Glow  on  still  joyously  through  all." 


BOOK  III. 

"  'Twas  not  in  cold  and  measured  phrase  : 
We  gave  our  passion  name : 
Scorning  such  tedious  eloquence, 

Our  hearts'  fond  flame, 
And  long-imprisoned  feelings,  fast 
In  deep  sobs  came." 

"  Her  arm  is  round  her  lover  now — 
His  livid  cheek  to  hers  she  presses." 

DARKNESS. 

A  summer  party  were  gathered  at  Mrs.  Langley's  co  antry 
seat  a  few  miles  up  the  Hudson,  and  Cecil  Grey  was  among 
them.  Here  he  wandered  through  the  old  woods  and  thought 
on  Florence  Warner — carved  her  name  upon  the  trees — and 
dreamed  himself  to  madness  for  her ! 

One  morning  a  riding  party  had  been  formed,  and  Cecil, 
sad  and  spiritless,  pleaded  head-ache,  and  was  permitted  to 
stay  at  home.  When  they  had  left  the  house  and  all  had 
become  quiet  again,  he  went  down  to  the  library,  and,  for 
lack  of  better  employment,  arranged  his  thoughts  into  a 
story — a  story  in  which  he  strove  to  show  the  necessity  and 
uses  of  a  wife  to  the  author — in  which  he  tried  to  prove  that 
energy  is  best  incited  by  love,  and  the  mind  best  guided 
through  the  heart.  Yet  his  hero  died — for  in  his  own  sad- 
ness he  could  not  give  the  creature  of  his  fancy  a  happy  lot. 

Just  as  he  finished,  the  door  opened,  and  Florence  Warner 
entered. 

"Mr.  Grey!"  she  said,  stopping,  and  growing  crimson, 
and  then  very  pale;  "I  thought  you  had  joined  the  riding 
party." 

t£  I  had  imagined  the  same  of  you,"  replied  Cecil.  "  But 
your  cheek  is  pale  ;  are  you  not  well  ?"  and  he  set  a  chair 
for  her. 


52 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


"No — I  have  some  head-ache.  But  what  excuse  have 
you  ?" 

"  None,  save  a  woman's — caprice.  I  did  not  feel  in  the 
mood  for  gaiety,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  cloud  the  mirth  of 
others." 

"  Perhaps  I  disturbed  you,"  said  Florence,  glancing  at  his 
papers. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  had  finished — and  it  would  have  borne  inter- 
ruption." 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "the  foible  of  our  sex — curiosity. 
May  I  be  pardoned  for  feeling  it,  and  asking  the  nature  of 
your  employment?" 

"  Truly  a  fit  employment  for  an  idle  man — the  framing 
of  an  idle  tale." 

"  One  more  request,  Mr.  Grey.  Read  it  to  me  ;  come," 
she  added,  as  she  marked  his  hesitation,  "  I  will  make  all 
due  allowance  for  modesty  and  imperfection.  But  we  have 
all  the  morning  before  us,  and  I  am  sure  cannot  find  a 
pleasanter  employment." 

Cecil  bowed  to  the  compliment,  and  read  the  story. 

"  And  such,"  was  the  comment  of  Florence,  "  such  is  the 
effect  of  a  poor  man's  marriage  !" 

"Ah  !  your  comment  proves  little  for  my  authorcraft!  I 
meant  to  show  the  necessity  of  a  wife  to  the  student." 

"Would  you  advocate  the  marriage  of  the  poor?"  she 
asked. 

"That  must  depend  on  the  man's  nature,"  he  replied. 
"  With  some,  it  destroys  energy  and  power ;  but  there  are 
others — and  so  I  feel  would  it  be  with  me — whom  a  wife, 
and  nothing  else,  would  drive  to  energy.  Give  me  but  the 
love  I  desire,  and  earth  can  show  no  obstacle  insuperable 
by  me.  Let  me  but  know  that  my  labor  is  for  her,  and 
nothing  could  tire  me.  But  now  I  sicken  at  toil ;  I  have 
none  to  sympathize  with  me — none  to  whom  I  can  show 
the  reward  of  my  labors  and  ask  her  to  be  proud  in  mc  ; 
and  I  cannot  work." 

"  You  speak  feelingly,  Mr.  Grey.  Can  it  be  possible  that 
you,  the  ever  gay,  ever  smiling,  have  this  darkness  of  lovo 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


53 


at  your  heart  ?"  And  that  question  awoke  all  the  passion 
of  his  nature. 

"Trust  not  the  face  !"  he  said.  "Trust  not  the  smile,  of 
all  things  !  Even  the  poet  draws  his  simily  for  a  smile  from 
the  sparkling  water,  and  forgets  its  icy  depths ;  from  the 
glowing  flame,  and  thinks  not  of  the  ashes  beneath ;  from 
the  beauty  of  the  sunset,  and  chills  not  to  think  of  the  com- 
ing night.  Love  !  you  ask  me.  Perhaps  you  think  that 
the  penniless  have  no  right  to  such  a  luxury.  But  I  do 
love,  with  all  my  power — fervently — hopelessly  !  You,  Flor- 
ence Warner — you,  whom  I  scorned  as  the  ball-room  belle 
when  I  first  saw  you— whom  I  soon  learned  to  respect — 
whom  I  now  live  to  love — your  beauty  allured  me — your 
intellect  fascinated  me — your  kindness  and  gentleness  won 
me.  And  now,  Florence,  I  love  yon  ! — not  with  the  heart 
only,  not  merely  with  affection  and  passion,  but  with  mind 
and  soul,  with  intellect  and  thought !  Thus  have  I — the 
poor  scholar,  loved  by  none — dared  to  love  you,  the  idol  of 
all.  Florence,  the  heart  has  had  its  way.  I  have  told  you 
that  I  love  you  ;  and  now,  farewell  for  ever  !"  As  he  arose 
to  his  feet  and  turned  away,  her  cheek  grew  crimson  and 
then  pallid  as  death. 

"Cecil,"  she  murmured.  He  turned  in  astonishment. 
She  placed  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and  fixed  her  dark, 
fervent  eyes  upon  his.  "  Cecil  Grey  !"  she  repeated ;  and 
with  a  low  cry  of  joy  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

"  See,  Florence,"  and  from  his  bosom  he  drew  a  small 
locket.  "  Your  hair  is  in  that  with  my  mother's.  It  was 
to  be  my  idol — my  memory  of  the  dream  of  you  ;  but  you 
have  loved  me." 

An  hour  passed  on,  as  with  hands  clasped  together  they 
gave  themselves  up  to  their  young  happiness.  Suddenly, 
impelled  by  a  quick  thought,  Florence  put  his  arm  from 
about  her  waist,  drew  her  hand  from  his,  and  said  as  she 
arose  to  her  feet,  "  Cecil,  this  must  end  now." 

"  Florence  !  what  can  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  can  never  marry  you,  Cecil !" 

"  What  ails  you,  dearest?"  he  asked  fondly,  fearing  that 


54 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


she  was  ill,  so  pale  she  grew  and  trembled  so  constantly. 
And  he  would  have  wound  his  arm  about  her,  but  she  put  it 
aside  with  a  shudder. 

"  Cecil  Grey,  I  too  have  a  story  to  tell — listen  to  me  f 
and  she  told  him  the  sorrows,  sufferings,  and  death  of  her 
parents — the  miseries  of  want  as  she  had  seen  them — and 
her  own  resolve. 

"  My  mother  died  almost  of  starvation  ;  died  in  a  garret, 
Cecil."  And  her  voice  grew  passionate,  and  the  uncontrol- 
lable tears  burst  from  her  eyes.  "  Do  not,  do  not  speak  to 
me  of  love  !"  and  she  knelt  down  before  him.  "  Do  not  ask 
me  to  marry  you !  Could  you  bring  me  to  this,  Cecil  ? 
Could  you  see  me  die  of  want,  and  know  that  you  had 
done  it?" 

He  sunk  back,  stunned  and  half  senseless.  It  needed  the 
strong  heart  of  a  woman  to  bear  the  agony  of  that  hour. 

"Poor  Cecil!"  she  said,  as  she  looked  upon  him.  "If  it 
will  comfort  you  to  know  how  truly,  how  devotedly  I  love 
you  ;  if  to  know  that  my  happiness  is  gone  for  ever ;  that 
the  light  has  left  my  heart ;  that  my  life  must  be  sorrow — 
know  it !  Farewell !"  and  she  stooped  down  and  kissed  his 
forehead. 

As  she  left  the  room,  he  half  recovered.  "  Florence  !"  he 
murmured — "Florence  !" 

"  Farewell,  Cecil !"  she  said.  One  look,  one  long,  long 
look  on  die  pale,  beautiful  face  he  loved  so  well,  and  then 
the  door  closed. 

It  was  midnight  darkness  with  them  both — silent,  rayless, 
and  profound. 

"  The  bright  sun  was  extinguished,  and  the  stars 
Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 
Rayless  and  pathless ;  and  the  icy  earth 
Swung,  blind  and  blackening,  in  the  moonless  air." 

********* 

"  Darkness  had  no  need 
Of  aid  from  them.    She  was  the  universe." 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


55 


LIGHT. 

Alone  in  her  room,  Florence  Warner  flung  herself  upon 
the  bed  and  wept  long"  and  bitterly.  Sternly  had  she  be- 
come the  iconoclast  of  her  own  idols ;  and  she  looked  now 
into  her  desolate  heart,  and  saw  that  nothing  but  love  would 
fill  it.  Then  she  thought  of  what  he  had  said.  He  could 
conquer  poverty  and  all  other  obstacles,  if  she  would  love 
him. 

"  I  cannot  lose  him  !"  she  cried.  "  I  will  go  to  him,  and 
ask  to  share  his  lot  wherever  and  however  God  may  cast 
it !" 

Grey,  as  soon  as  he  recovered,  went  to  his  own  room. 

"Well,"  he  thought,  "it  is  over  now,  and  the  beggar 
has  wakened  from  his  dream  !  What  right  had  I  to  love? 
How  dared  I?  What  has  the  poor  man  to  do  with  passions 
and  feelings  ?  God  did  not  make  love  for  him  !  No — let 
him  crawl  through  the  bye-ways  of  life  with  an  humble 
heart,  and  hail  with  a  smile  the  common  grave  of  the  Pot- 
ter's Field  ;  but  let  him  not  presume  to  love  !**♦** 
Oblivion !  oblivion !"  he  shouted  ;  "  they  cannot  take  that 
from  the  poor !"  and  as  he  spoke,  he  dashed  from  the  room. 
As  he  left  the  house,  Florence  saw  him,  and  watched  him 
till  his  form  was  lost  among  the  trees. 

The  breeze  increased,  the  day  darkened,  and  the  signs 
of  the  summer  storm  were  around  him.  He  did  not  notice 
them,  but  flung  himself  at  the  foot  of  an  old  tree  on  which 
he  had  carved  her  initials.  He  leaned  back  his  head,  and 
closed  his  eyes.  Then  to  him  came  visions  from  the  spirit- 
land  of  dreams — and,  in  those  visions,  all  was  beautiful. 
The  air  was  fragrance — delicate,  but  all-pervading ;  the  breeze 
was  music ;  and  there  were  cool  sounds  of  waterfall  and 
brook,  and  songs  of  birds  and  rustling  of  leaves.  Through 
them  moved  the  form  of  Florence — her  voice  enriching  the 
music  and  her  smile  the  beauty  of  the  day.  He  spoke  of 
love  to  her,  and  she  listened  with  a  blush,  and  rested  her 
hand  in  his,  and  leaned  her  beautiful  head  upon  his  shoulder. 


56 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 


He  heard  not  the  low  muttering  of  the  thunder  and  the  plash 
of  the  first  rain-drops — 

"  For  far  and  wide  there  glitter'd  to  his  eye 
Life's  only  fairy  land — the  days  to  come." 

But  the  scene  began  to  change.  The  forest,  the  flowers, 
and  the  birds  passed  away,  and  he  saw  nothing  but  a  cloud 
before  him  ;  and  from  it  looked  the  face  of  his  mother,  with 
a  sweet  but  sad  and  mysterious  smile  upon  her  lips.  She 
was  looking  from  heaven  upon  her  son.  He  gazed  upon  the 
still  face,  and,  as  he  gazed,  a  change  passed  over  it ;  the 
smile  faded  ;  the  features  grew  rigid  and  sharp,  an  expression 
of  great  pain  covered  them  ;  the  eyes  were  glazing ;  and  the 
quick,  gasping  breath  was  there,  and  the  white  foam  upon 
the  lips;  and  the  face  was  as  that  which  he  had  watched 
when  he  kneeled  at  her  death-bed.  He  strove  to  raise  his 
arms  and  to  murmur,  "Mother!"  He  knew  that  he  stood 
in  the  forest,  but  the  rain  was  falling  fiercely.  Again  the 
living  thunder  of  God  shook  the  sky,  and  the  lightning  struck 
an  oak  directly  in  front  of  him.  He  saw  the  huge  tree 
shiver  and  bend  ;  he  heard  the  crash  as  it  fell  through  the 
air;  then  covered  his  eyes,  groaned  deeply,  and  fell. 

And  there  Florence  Warner  found  him  ;  and  there  she 
called  God  to  witness  that  she  would  never  forsake  him  ! 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  saw  her  bending  over  him. 

"Ah  !"  he  shuddered,  "I  am  dreaming  yet !" 

"Not  dreaming,  dear  Cecil — not  dreaming.  It  is  I." 
Then  the  star-beams  broke  upon  his  heart — beams  of  hope 
and  faith. 

"And  you  will  love  me  then  for  ever?"  And  for  answer 
she  laid  her  face  upon  his  heart ! 

"And  you  will  inspire  me  to  labor,  and  be  glad  in  my 
fame  ;  you  will  soothe  me  when  I  need  it ;  you  will  sorrow 
in  my  sadness,  rejoice  in  my  pleasure,  and  be  proud  in  my 
pride  ?  When  I  can  justly  claim  you,  you  will  be  my  own, 
my  wife?" 

He  bound  her  by  no  vow.  He  asked  no  promise — for  poor 
is  the  love  that  cannot  trust !    He  was  exultant,  for  he  had 


TRIFLES. 


57 


faith  in  her.  Once,  one  instant,  she  raised  her  trembling 
lids,  and  the  large  eyes  dwelt  upon  his.  And  the  smile  came 
to  his  lip. 

Then  the  sun  broke  forth,  and  the  rain-drops  sparkled 
like  diamonds,  and  the  damp  leaves  glittered  in  the  sheen. 
The  birds  carolled  gaily,  and  the  butterfly  crept  from  beneath 
the  mullen  leaf,  and  dried  his  wings  in  the  sun.  And  the 
south  wind  whispered  ;  and  the  rivulet  sung ;  and  the  world 
was  Eden  once  more ;  for  light  was  in  heaven — light  was 
on  earth — and  light  (God's  light)  was  in  their  hearts ! 


TRIFLES. 


A  cloud  may  intercept  the  sun ; 
A  web,  by  insect-workers  spun, 
Preserve  the  life  within  the  frame — 
Or  vipers  take  away  the  same. 
A  grain  of  sand  upon  the  sight, 
May  rob  a  giant  of  his  might ! 
Or  needle-point  let  out  his  breath, 
And  make  a  banquet-meal  for  Death! 

How  often,  at  a  single  word, 

The  heart  with  agony  is  stirred, 

And  ties  that  years  could  not  have  riven, 

Are  scatter'd  to  the  winds  of  heaven ! 

A  glance,  that  looks  what  lips  would  speak, 

Will  speed  the  pulse  and  blanch  the  cheek; 

And  thoughts,  not  looked  nor  yet  express'd, 

Create  a  chaos  in  the  breast. 

A  smile  of  hope  from  those  we  love, 
May  be  an  angel  from  above; 
A  whisper'd  welcome  in  our  ears, 
Be  as  the  music  of  the  spheres ; 
The  pressure  of  a  gentle  hand, 
Worth  all  that  glitters  in  the  land. 
Oh !  trifles  are  not  what  they  are, 
But  fortune  ruling  voice  and  star ! 


F  L  0  W  E  K  S. 


BY  C.  D.  STUART. 


Children  of  the  summer,  smiling 
Out  from  green  and  odorous  dells, 
Where  the  soft  wind  gently  swells 

O'er  your  lips,  with  fond  beguiling ; 
Are  ye  not,  O,  bright  evangels, 
Foot-prints  of  the  hovering  angels  ? 

Tear-drops  your  mild  eyes  suffusing, 

Turning  ever  to  the  sun; 

And,  o'er  all  the  paths  we  run, 
Fragrance  from  your  life  diffusing; 

Are  ye  not  from  God  sent  to  us,  ; 

By  your  gentle  smiles  to  woo  us! 

O,  I  see  the  lingering  traces 
Of  your  high  and  holier  birth, 
When  the  twilight  stars  the  earth, 

And  the  dew-drops  on  your  faces 
Twinkle  upward,  through  the  even, 
To  their  kindred  lights  in  heaven. 

And,  with  near  and  dearer  teaching 
Than  all  human  tongues,  ye  come, 
Of  our  bright  and  griefless  home, 

With  your  spirit-voices,  preaching, 
In  that  low  and  gentle  strain 
Like  our  childhood's  tone,  again. 

Smile  ye  on !  as  fair  forever, 
With  your  faces  turn'd  above ; 
Let  your  eyes,  so  full  of  love, 

All  our  thoughts  from  evil  sever ; 
Lead  us  up,  and,  O.  restore  us 
To  the  brightness  still  before  us! 


THE   PAST  YEAR. 


From  "  Musings  of  an  Invalid." 


A  few  short  hours  since,  and  the  eighteen  hundred  and 
fifty-first  volume  of  the  new  series  of  Time's  Earthly  Works 
was  finished,  and  deposited  by  the  Recording  Angel  in  the 
archives  of  Heaven.  And  already  is  that  most  diligent, 
most  truthful  of  historians  hard  at  work  upon  the  next. 
Oh  !  what  endless,  yet  what  vain  and  idle  speculations  are 
suggested  to  the  imagination  by  this  thought!  Who  is  this 
heavenJy  compiler  ?  What  associates  hath  he,  in  his  un- 
ceasing labors?  From  what  point  of  space  doth  he  survey 
this  restless  ball  of  ours?  On  what  mysterious  leaves,  with 
what  magic  pen,  in  what  unknown  language,  are  his  records 
inscribed?  Where  is  the  celestial  library,  whose  alcoves 
contain  these  innumerable,  these  all-revealing  histories? 
And  are  all  the  transactions  of  Earth  here  faithfully  depicted, 
be  they  great  or  small,  public  or  private,  Christian  or  Pagan  ? 
Does  the  same  volume  that  recites  the  virtues  of  a  Washing- 
ton, take  note  of  the  humble,  unlettered  goodness  that  lies 
hid  in  some  secluded  mountain  dell,  or  that  praises  God  in 
some  far-off  log-house  of  the  wilderness?  The  same  his- 
torian that  lays  bare  the  deep,  the  Titanic  wickedness  of  a 
Napoleon,  does  he  also  duly  mark  and  brand  the  petty  vil- 
lanies  of  every  low-browed  scoundrel  of  St.  Giles's?  Is  the 
same  page,  perhaps,  whereon  are  inscribed  the  sweet  hymns 
and  prayers  of  childhood,  stained  with  the  ribald  blasphemies 
of  some  foul  nest  of  pirates  ?  Is  nothing  lost,  then  ?  What ! 
are  all  the  burning  words  of  orators,  the  passionate  outpour- 
ings of  lovers,  the  brilliant  sallies  of  wits,  the  drowsy  speeches 
of  legislators,  the  quibbles  of  special  pleaders,  the  mocks  of 
wicked  and  the  groans  of  dying  men — are  they  all  treasured 


60 


THE   PAST  YEAR. 


up  in  these  authentic  histories?  Is  it  to  no  purpose,  then, 
that  we  destroy  our  ill-considered  writings,  take  back  our 
hasty  words,  suppress  our  evil  thoughts  ?  Do  they  still  live, 
and  are  they  to  be  published  against  us?  Horrible!  hor- 
rible !  When,  then,  oh  !  when  are  these  mysterious,  these 
terrible  details  to  be  disclosed  ?  Is  it  to  be  on  some  grand 
day  of  audience  and  of  judgment,  before  all  the  assembled 
souls  of  the  children  of  men  ?  or  does  each  one  of  us,  imme- 
diately on  leaving  earth,  hear  and  receive,  according  to  the 
deeds  done  in  the  body  ?  And  oh  !  what  is  be  our  portion, 
when  confronted  with  and  judged  by  these  not-to-be-ques- 
tioned records  ?  Where  is  this  heaven,  or  this  hell,  that 
awaits  us  ?  In  what  part  of  the  boundless  realms  of  space  ? 
These  other  planets  of  our  system,  too,  are  they  also  inhabit- 
ed by  moral  and  accountable  beings,  whose  daily  thoughts, 
words,  and  deeds  are  thus  transcribed  for  purposes  of  judg- 
ment? Are  all  these  systems  of  the  universe  but  so  many 
expansions  of  the  same  great  scheme  of  discipline?  or,  are 
certain  portions  of  creation  set  apart  as  theatres  where  the 
great  drama  of  probation  is  for  ever  enacted,  and  others 
selected  for  the  wonderful  realities  of  retribution  ?  Which 
of  those  two  sparkling  stars,  then,  is  the  abode  of  the  just 
made  perfect,  and  which  the  eternal  residence  of  the  lost? 
Or.  is  there  no  eternal  residence  for  the  soul?  and  are  all 
these  worlds  so  many  points  at  which  we  commence,  or 
stages  through  which  we  pass,  in  the  progress  of  a  journey 
that  knows  no  end  ?  Ah,  dear !  who  hath  not  asked,  who 
is  not  continually  asking  these  questions? — so  natural,  and 
at  the  same  time  so  terrible  ;  so  familiar  to  the  mind,  and 
yet  so  utterly  inexplicable  ?  Revelation  certainly  does  not 
condescend  to  answer  them,  save  in  the  merest  generalities, 
and  Nature's  voice  returns  but  vague  and  indistinct  mutter- 
ings  ;  the  hints  that  Science  furnishes,  sublime  as  they  may 
be,  yet  are  they  not  far  more  calculated  to  bewilder,  appal, 
overwhelm  us,  than  to  inspire  or  yield  us  comfort?  What  a 
withering,  blighting  sense  of  insignificance  seems  to  attach 
to  earth  and  earthly  things !  Virtue  itself  loses  heart,  and 
is  afraid,  lest,  in  the  mysterious  arrangements  of  God,  it 


THE  PAST  YEAR. 


61 


should  be  overlooked — cheated  out  of  its  futuie  existence. 
Vice  becomes  more  hardened  and  reckless  than  ever,  as  if 
it  felt  sure,  through  its  very  littleness,  of  slipping  through 
the  fingers  of  Almighty  Justice.  Reputation  hardly  rises 
to  the  dignity  of  a  bubble ;  and  Fame,  alas !  the  loudest 
blast  of  her  trumpet  sinks  into  the  faintest  echo  of  the 
feeblest  whisper :  "  the  great  globe  itself,  yea,  all  which  it 
inherit,"  scarcely  seems  to  be  an  appreciable  quantity  in  the 
universe,  and  no  more  to  be  missed,  were  it  suddenly  plucked 
out  of  creation,  than  a  berry  would  be  from  a  bush,  an  apple 
from  a  crowded  tree.  But,  oh  !  can  this  be  the  true  view  of 
ourselves,  or  of  our  position  in  the  vast  scale  of  being?  No, 
no — we  are  not  such  obscure,  such  insignificant  creatures 
in  God's  eyes.  This  dear  earth  of  ours — has  not  Heavenly 
Wisdom  contrived  it,  planted  and  watered  it,  filled  it  with 
life  and  beauty,  endowed  it  with  light  and  motion,  subjected 
it  to  wondrous  laws,  prescribed  for  it  a  glorious  pathway  in 
the  skies,  entrusted  it  to  guardian  angels,  nay,  assigned  to  it 
this  same  celestial  overseer  and  historian,  whose  labors  know 
no  pause,  whose  records  cannot  err  ?  Surely  some  great  end 
is  contemplated  in  all  these  wondrous  plans.  Can  that  be 
so  very  paltry  and  worthless  an  object,  on  which  so  much 
thought  and  care  and  kindness  have  been  expended  ?  Not 
only  do  mortified  pride  and  alarmed  vanity,  but  reason  and 
good  sense  also,  remonstrate,  protest  against  this  belittling 
view  of  man,  and  his  relations  to  his  Maker ;  this  view, 
which  so  discourages  all  that  is  excellent,  and  arouses  all 
that  is  diabolical  within  us.  But,  oh  !  how  much  more  po- 
tent and  triumphant  is  the  voice  of  Christianity  on  this  sub- 
ject !  "  What,  they  of  no  account  in  his  eyes,  to  whom  God 
has  given  not  only  so  many  good  things  and  noble  faculties, 
but  so  many  special  messengers  also,  fraught  with  glad 
tidings  and  solemn  warnings  and  precious  promises? — nay, 
who  hath  himself  come  down  from  heaven  to  visit  and  en- 
lighten and  redeem  them  VI  Happy  the  man  who  can  ask 
this  question  in  good  faith — who  is  not  shamming  in  this 
matter,  who  is  not  merely  acquiescing  in  these  truths,  but 
in  his  very  heart  and  soul  adopts  them,  and  manfully  acts 


62 


THE  PAST  YEAR. 


up  to  them.  If  these  things  be  so,  indeed,'  what  a  delightful 
position  he  occupies  !  If  they  should  turn  out  to  be  an  illu- 
sion, still  what  a  charming,  glorious  illusion  !  An  illusion 
that  tends  alike  to  cheer  the  heart  and  mend  the  life — to 
make  a  man  a  blessing  to  those  about  him,  an  ornament  to 
his  race,  who  wouldn't  cherish  it?  But,  to  look  at  this  mat- 
ter again,  as  a  poor  natural  man — is  there,  after  all,  in  the 
phenomena  which  science  discloses  or  suggests,  anything 
to  force  us  to  take  such  frightfully  humble  ground,  and  to 
make  us  out  such  a  contemptible  portion  of  creation?  If 
mere  bulk,  indeed,  is  to  be  the  measure  of  value,  our  little 
planet  must  certainly  cut  a  pretty  sorry  figure  in  the  skies, 
alongside  of  its  unwieldy  brethren  Jupiter  and  Saturn,  for 
instance.  But  may  we  not  have  the  advantage  of  them 
both,  in  matters  of  far  more  consequence?  As  in  the  earth 
itself,  there  are  favored  tracts,  alike  removed  from  the  heat 
of  the  equator  and  the  polar  cold,  in  which  alone  are  to  be 
found  the  highest  manifestations  of  beauty,  the  rarest  exhi- 
bitions of  intellect,  may  it  not  be  the  same  thing  in  the  sys- 
tem ?  may  we  not  have  a  far  more  felicitous  position  in  that 
system,  for  the  development  of  physical  and  intellectual 
excellence,  than  either  the  inhabitants  of  Mars  or  Venus, 
or  than  those  of  the  greater  and  more  distant  planets?  may 
not  our  little  orb,  after  all,  then,  be  far  more  precious  in  the 
eyes  of  its  Maker  than  its  huge  brethren  ?  may  not  our  little 
selves,  with  all  our  crimes  and  follies,  be  far  nobler  products 
of  Divine  Wisdom,  than  their  inhabitants — a  race,  for  aught 
we  know,  of  clumsy,  feeble-witted,  malignant  giants?  Why 
not  take  comfort  in  that  thought,  as  wTell  as  be  cowed  down 
by  the  opposite  ?  May  not  conjecture — poor,  wandering 
child  of  ignorance  ! — be  allowed  to  stray  in  one  direction 
as  well  as  another?  But,  after  all,  why  indulge  at  all  in 
such  vain  and  unprofitable  conjectures?  Are  they  not  quite 
too  much,  even  for  the  strongest  nerves,  the  clearest  heads, 
the  purest  hearts?  What  right,  then,  have  I — poor,  frail, 
feeble,  ignorant  sinner  that  I  am— to  try  to  fathom  these 
awful  depths,  to  puzzle  my  poor  brains  with  these  bewilder- 
ing speculations  ?    Better,  far  better,  confine  myself  to  the 


WEDDED  LOVE. 


63 


humble  sphere  of  duty  assigned  me— to  do  all  I  can,  in  my 
small  way,  towards  making  this  earth  of  ours,  or  at  least  the 
little  corner  of  it  in  which  I  am  called  to  act,  more  worthy 
of  the  Great  Founder — more  comfortable,  and  beautiful,  and 
enlightened,  and  happy — the  home  of  peace  and  good  will — 
and  to  leave  it,  at  last,  not  in  a  murmuring,  struggling,  rebel- 
lious spirit,  but  calmly  and  hopefully  awaiting  the  great 
mysteries  of  the  future. 

u  Hope  humbly,  then — on  trembling  pinions  soar ; 
Wait  the  great  teacher,  Death — and  God  adore." 


WEDDED  LOVE. 


There  is  a  love  so  fond,  so  true, 
No  art  the  magic  tie  can  sever ; 

Tis  ever  beauteous,  ever  new — 
Its  chain  once  linked,  is  linked  for  ever. 

There  is  a  love  whose  feeling  rolls 
In  pure,  unruffled  calmness  on — 

The  meeting  of  congenial  souls — 
Of  hearts  whose  currents  flow  in  one. 

It  is  a  blessing  that  is  felt 

But  by  united  minds  that  flow — 

As  sunbeams  into  sunbeams  melt, 
To  light  a  frozen  world  below. 

There  is  a  love  that  o'er  the  war 
Of  jarring  passions  pours  its  light, 

And  sheds  its  influence  like  a  star 

That  brightest  burns  in  darkest  night. 

It  is  so  true,  so  fix'd,  so  strong, 

It  parts  not  with  the  parting  breath; 

In  the  soul's  flight  'tis  borne  along, 

And  holds  the  heart-strings  e'en  in  death. 

'Tis  never  quench'd  by  sorrow's  tide  ; 

No,  'tis  a  flame  caught  from  above — 
A  tie  that  death  cannot  divide  ; — 

'Tis  the  bright  torch  of  wedded  love. 


OH,   SPEAK   NOT  HARSHLY! 


To  Youth  not  harshly ! — since  the  wound 

Upon  the  sapling  green 
Still  scars  the  ancient  oak,  which  hath 

Its  fourscore  winters  seen. 

Oh !  soon,  full  soon  doth  sorrow  chill — 
Full  soon  the  dark  clouds  lower; 

Why  shouldst  thou  tear  thus  ruthlessly 
The  petals  of  the  flower1? 

To  Age  not  harshly !    Age  hath  had 

A  weary  weight  to  bear — 
Troubles  that  well  might  pale  the  cheek, 

And  mark  the  brow  with  care. 

Not  harshly !    She  is  hearing  now 
Sweet  household  tones  again ; 

Why  shouldst  thou  rudely  break  upon 
The  dear,  familiar  strain  ? 

Why  shouldst  thou  wake  her  to  the  thought 

That  love  and  joy  are  fled? 
Why  dost  thou  make  her  long  to  share 

The  quiet  of  her  dead  ? 

Not  harshly !    He  hath  erred,  indeed ; 

And  yet  thou  dost  not  know 
The  wearing  strife,  the  tempter's  power, 

The  bitterness  of  woe. 

And  when  he  fell,  thou  wast  not  there 

To  mark  his  agony ; 
Thou  couldst  not  hear  the  frenzied  prayer, 

The  wild,  remorseful  cry. 

Oh,  speak  not  harshly !    The  dark  clouds 

Have  but  just  rolled  away, 
And  let  a  gleam  of  sunlight  down 

To  gild  her  changing  day. 

Why  sternly  check  her  passing  mirth, 
When,  ere  to-morrow's  morn, 

The  golden  ray  will  fade  away, 
Like  those  of  April  born  ? 

Not  harshly !    Thou  art  mortal  too, 
As  those  thou  dost  condemn ; 

And  wouldst  thou  God  should  deal  with  thee 
As  thou  dost  deal  with  them  1 

Then  speak  not  harshly! — since  a  time 

May  be  in  store  for  thee, 
When  thou  for  some  kind  word  wouldst  give 

Treasures  of  land  or  sea. 


A    LIFE  PICTURE. 


BY  C.  D.  STUART. 


There  are  pictures  in  life,  as  on  canvass,  which  once  seen 
are  never  forgotten.  I  remember  one  such.  It  was  years 
ago,  on  a  hot  afternoon,  that  I  saw  an  old  man  leaning 
against  a  lamp-post,  which  he  left  in  a  few  moments,  evi- 
dently wearied  out,  for  an  iron  hydrant,  on  whose  square  top 
he  sat  himself  down  to  rest.  There  was  something  so  mourn- 
ful in  his  look,  that  I  threw  open  the  blinds  of  the  window 
where  I  had  been  sitting,  and,  leaning  over  the  casement, 
watched  him  with  an  intensity  of  feeling  akin  to  anguish 
and  tears.  Over  a  brow,  on  which  I  should  judge  not  less 
than  seventy  winters  had  pressed  their  feet,  and  as  many 
summers  their  parching  hands,  and  down  the  sides  of  which 
struggled  a  few  white  hairs,  was  drawn  a  faded  hat,  scarce 
#  shading  his  hollow  cheeks,  while  his  body  was  garbed  in  a 
covering  which,  though  cleanly-looking,  bore  unmistakable 
marks  of  a  past  age.  His  feet  were  cased  in  a  poor  apology 
for  shoes  ;  and  thus  accoutred,  with  "silvery  beard  unshorn," 
in  the  very  sun's  eye,  sad,  yet  vacant-looking,  as  though  no 
bond  of  earth  claimed,  and  no  mortal  friend  cared  for  him, 
he  sat  silent,  immovable  as  the  seat  on  which  he  rested. 

There  is  to  me  no  sight  more  tenderly  touching  than  that 
of  old  age.  I  reverence  the  Chinese,  in  that  they  reverence 
old  age.  Even  though  comfort  and  happiness  surround  it, 
and  youth  and  childhood  smile  lovingly  upon  it,  it  suggests 
to  me  more  than  the  ripest  joy  of  earth.  So  near  the  verge 
of  life,  it  seems  to  me  only  so  much  nearer  to  heaven,  and 
the  great  mysteries  of  the  grave,  and  it  fills  me  with  solemnly 
tender  thoughts.  Stranger  though  it  may  be,  I  see  my  kin, 
my  nearest  and  dearest,  and  even  my  own  self  imaged  in  it, 
and  I  could  no  more  treat  it  irreverently  than  I  could  mock 
at  immediate  death.  But  old  age  in  want,  suffering  by  the 
way-side,  what  so  touching  as  that?    It  might  be  my  father, 


A  LIFE  PICTURE. 


01  my  mother ;  a  wife,  brother,  or  sister :  if  one  suffer  thus, 
may  not  all?  And  what  if  one's  mother  were  shivering 
with  cold,  or  dying  with  hunger,  or  suffering  from  pain, 
with  no  heart  to  beat  tenderly  toward  her,  and  no  hand  to 
shield  her  grey  hairs ;  can  a  sight  more  touching  appear 
upon  earth  ?    Not  to  me  ! 

I  watched  the  old  man  for  an  hour,  full  of  reflections  like 
the  above,  when  I  ventured  out  to  speak  a  word  with  him, 
to  inquire  into  his  histoiy,  and,  if  he  had  them,  his  sorrows 
and  griefs.  If  youth  is  reverent,  old  age  seldom  repulses  it. 
There  is  a  childhood  at  either  end  of  life,  and  the  two  mingle 
when  they  meet.  So  I  found  it.  Freely  to  my  question, 
"Friend,  are  you  in  want?"  he  replied  that  he  was  way- 
worn, and  tired,  and  nigh  starved  ;  an  out-cast  or  cast-out 
from  his  own  home ;  a  home  which,  in  other  years,  he  had 
reared  to  shelter  and  make  happy  those  images  of  himself 
who  now  had  so  foully  turned  him  forth  to,  beggary  and 
death.  I  was  poor  enough  in  this  world's  goods,  but  infi- 
nitely rich,  I  trust,  in  the  sympathy  that  divides  what  it  has 
with  the  suffering,  and  I  gave  him  that  which  I  had.  It 
was  but  little,  yet  I  have  a  thousand  times  felt,  and  now 
feel,  the  tearful  gratitude  of  that  old  man,  for  so  small  a 
kindness,  sw7eeter  to  me  than  "  strained  honey."  The  me- 
mory of  it  flows  into  my  heart  like  a  rich  odor. 

Could  I  have  done  less  for  him,  though  I  could  do  no 
more?  Could  1  have  passed  by  such  sorrow  and  suffering, 
without  dropping  if  only  one  consoling  word  ?  The  breath 
of  kindness  is  sometimes  both  the  bread  and  water  of  life. 
Nay,  I  could  not  have  done  less.  Within  me  arose  the  sug- 
gestion, yet  a  little  while,  O,  child,  now  blest  with  sufficiency, 
and  thy  head  will  be  silvered,  and  may  be  as  poorly  sheltered 
as  this  old  man's.  Thou,  too,  mayst  have  children  who 
will  turn  thee  from  thy  home.  It  was  a  reciprocity  founded 
on  the  possibility  of  events  far  off,  swelling  within  me,  that 
would  not  be  repressed  ;  a  sentiment  of  compassion,  not  alto- 
gether unselfish,  which,  as  with  God's  voice,  bade  me  do  as 
I  did  ;  a  duty,  whose  omission  wTould  have  pained  my  heart 
forever  after — whose  fulfilment,  brought  its  great  reward. 


A  LIFE  PICTURE. 


07 


I  looked  not  upon  that  old  man  as  a  beggar :  No,  he  had 
been  a  happy  boy,  had  felt  the  spring  breezes  kiss  his  spotless 
cheek  and  toss  up  his  glossy  bright  hair.  He  had  been  a 
light-hearted  youth,  had  touched  his  lips  to  the  fountain  of 
life  when  it  was  clear  and  sweet,  and  had  been  happy  with 
high  aspirations,  and  dreams  of  faithful  love.  Finally,  he 
had  grown  to  manhood,  passed  the  rubicon,  and  seen  in  the 
distance  before  him,  transcendently  beautiful,  the  Mecca  of 
life.  Around  him  clustered  his  flock,  beaming  their  bright 
eyes  upon  his  sobered  face,  shedding  a  halo  over  his  home. 
Happy  man  !  a  child,  a  youth,  a  man  and  a  father,  blessed 
in  affections  that  refined  and  purified  him,  and  with  affluence 
sufficient  for  all  the  desires  of  life,  could  he  ask  for  more? 
Could  he  say  to  felicity,  "  Come  nearer  to  my  soul  ?" 

But  hold  !  change  and  blight  hang  upon  the  issue  of  an 
hour.  The  wife  of  the  happy  man  died,  misfortune  came 
upon  him,  and  before  the  storm,  passed  away  much  that 
was  bright.  The  old  oak,  shorn  of  the  protecting  forest, 
caught  the  lightning,  and  stood  charred  and  blasted  against 
the  sky.  The  stout  heart  palsied  and  the  hand  withered  at 
its  task. 

Did  the  fond,  beaming  eyes  of  children  then  smile  upon 
the  old  man — the  father?  Nay  !  but  with  bitterness  and 
reproach,  his  own  blood  thrust  him  forth,  alone,  into  the 
world  !  He  went  forth,  he  knew  not  whith'er  ;  not  a  beggar, 
out  a  venerable  old  man,  cursed  by  the  sting  that  is  "sharper 
than  a  serpent's  tooth."  He  was  Lear,  without  the  memo- 
ries of  a  king.  And  this  was  not  among  savages,  but  in  a 
Christian  land  ! 

There  are  souls  rude  enough  to  mock  at  old  age  like 
this.  Who  can  ridicule  even  grey  hairs?  I  cannot.  Men- 
dicity nor  crime  could  stay  in  my  heart  the  rise  of  a  tender 
feeling  toward  one  so  clad  in  livery  for  the  grave.  Old  age 
has  my  sympathy  and  my  alms,  wherever  I  see  the  silvery 
signet  on  its  brow.  On  earth,  save  God,  I  reverence  nothing 
more.  I  never  see  it,  but  I  think  of  the  children  who  mock 
ed  at  Elijah,  and  against  whom  God  sent  a  vengeance. 


TO    MY  MOTHEB 


I've  wander'd  far  from  thee,  mother — 

Far  from  our  happy  home ; 
I've  left  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 

In  other  climes  to  roam : 
And  Time,  since  then,  has  rolled  his  years, 

And  mark'd  them  on  my  brow  ; 
Yet  still,  I've  often  thought  of  thee— 

I'm  thinking  of  thee  now! 

I'm  thinking  of  those  days,  mother, 

When,  with  such  earnest  pride, 
You  watch'd  the  dawnings  of  my  youth, 

And  press'd  me  to  your  side ; 
Then  love  had  fiJl'd  my  trusting  heart 

With  hopes  of  future  joy, 
And  thy  bright  fancy  honors  wove, 

To  deck  thy  "  darling  boy." 

I'm  thinking  on  the  day,  mother, 

I  left  thy  watchful  care, 
When  thy  fond  heart  was  lifted  up 

To  Heaven — thy  trust  was  there: 
And  memory  brings  thy  parting  words, 

When  tears  fell  o'er  thy  cheek  ; 
But  thy  last  loving,  anxious  look, 

Told  more  than  words  could  speak. 

I'm  far  away  from  thee,  mother, 

No  friend  is  near  me  now, 
To  soothe  me  with  a  tender  word, 

Or  cool  my  burning  brow ; 
The  dearest  ties  affection  wove, 

Are  all  now  torn  from  me  ; 
They  left  me  when  the  trouble  came— 

They  did  not  love  like  thee  ! 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

I'm  lonely  and  forsaken  now, 

Unpitied  and  unblest ; 
Yet  still,  I  would  not  have  thee  know 

How  sorely  I'm  distress'd  : 
1  know  thou  wouldst  not  chide,  mother, 

Thou  wouldst  not  give  me  pain, 
But  cheer  me  with  thy  softest  words, 

And  bid  me  hope  again. 

But,  ah !  there  is  a  thought,  mother, 

Pervades  my  beating  breast — 
That  thy  freed  spirit  may  have  flown 

To  its  eternal  rest ; 
And  as  I  wipe  the  tear  away, 

There  whispers  in  mine  ear 
A  voice,  that  speaks  of  Heaven  and  thee, 

And  bids  me  seek  thee  there. 


ABOU   BEN  ADHEM. 


Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase  !) 

Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace ; 

And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 

(Making  it  rich  like  a  lily  in  bloom,) 

An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold 

And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said — 

"  What  writest  thou  ?"    The  angel  raised  his  head, 

And,  with  a  look  made  all  of  sweet  accord, 

Answered — "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 

"  And  is  mine  one  V  said  Adhem.    "  Nay,  not  so," 

Replied  the  angel.    Adhem  spoke  more  low, 

But  cheerily  still,  and  said — "  I  pray  thee,  then, 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote  and  vanished    The  next  night 

He  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 

And  showed  the  names  the  love  of  God  had  blest — 

And  lo  !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest ! 


SALANDER    AND    THE  DRAGON. 


This  ingenious  and  beautiful  allegory  illustrates,  in  a 
very  powerful  manner,  the  danger  of  "uttering,  or  of  lending 
ear  to  the  unkind  word  or  insinuation,"  which  is  unhappily 
so  near  to  being  a  universal  fault,  that  few  are  exempt  from 
its  unlovely,  mischievous,  and  wicked  influence. 

Poor  Goodman,  the  keeper  of  the  Hartz  Prison,  is  per- 
suaded by  a  person  of  gentlemanly  address  and  insinuating 
manners,  to  admit  within  his  walls  a  hideous  dwarf,  named 
Salander,  at  the  same  time  being  warned  in  a  solemn  man- 
ner not  to  Jet  him  escape — though  he  had  something  more 
than  a  hint  that  it  would  be  extremely  difficult  to  detain 
him.  The  keeper's  wife  discovers  that  something  of  a  pri- 
vate nature  is  going  on  ;  and  she  continually  tantalizes  her 
husband  with  entreaties  to  see  the  monster — to  which  he 
consents,  though  it  is  entirely  contrary  to  orders.  At  length 
she  is  permitted  to  look  upon  the  hideous  prisoner  with  her 
own  eyes,  when,  wonderful  to  say,  she  is  seized  with  a  strange 
fancy  for  him,  petting  him,  as  it  would  seem,  for  his  very 
ugliness.  She  communicates  the  secret  to  a  neighbor.  Un- 
pleasant and  disgraceful  things  begin  to  be  whispered  abroad ; 
and  finally  the  poor  keeper,,  intolerably  annoyed,  turns  the 
prisoner  loose. 

The  career  of  Salander  is  delineated  with  a  most  graphic 
power.  Every  step  is  marked  by  disgrace,  misery  and  death. 
Conscienza,  the  Lord  of  the  Castle,  having  been  entranced 
by  a  potent  drug,  administered  by  Goodman  and  his  wife, 
that  he  might  not  know,  and  punish  them  for  their  mischief, 
suddenly  rises  from  his  sleep ;  and  the  poor  Keeper  of  the 
Prison  is  overwhelmed  by  his  terrible  anger.  As  a  punish- 
ment he  is  sent  forth  to  re-capture  and  bring  back  Salander. 


*  A  Romance  of  the  Hartz  Prison."— By  Rev.  Frederick  W.  Shelton.— Published 
by  John  S.  Taylor,  143  Nassau-Street,  New-York.   250  pp.  12rno. 


KIND  WORDS  USE  THEM. 


7  J 


He  treads  paths  which  are  bordered  by  his  ruins ;  but  the 
dwarfish  monster,  mounted  on  his  Dragon,  is  going  wide 
in  the  world.  He  is  at  large ;  and  no  human  power  can 
arrest  his  progress. 

But  it  is  impossible  to  give  even  an  outline  of  the  story. 
In  the  catastrophe  and  some  of  its  results,  it  rises  into  the 
splendor  and  majesty  of  a  true  poem — now  grand  and  power- 
ful, in  the  imagery  of  the  battle,  now  sinking  into  the  sweet 
and  mournful  numbers  of  a  wailing  sorrow  for  the  lovely 
and  noble,  who  frave  fallen  victims  to  the  escaped  demon. 
Nothing  could  be  more  beautiful  than  the  dying  man's  dream 
of  finding  the  Lost  Jewel. 

The  volume  is  beautifully  illustrated  with  fine  etchings, 
some  of  which  have  in  themselves  much  merit.  Let  story- 
readers  read  this  story  of  truth,  and  profit  thereby ;  and  let 
none  venture  to  pass  it  over,  lest,  peradventure,  he  should 
lose  something  of  which  society  had  better  pay  the  price 
than  that  it  should  not  go  where  it  is  so  much  needed — 
that  is,  everywhere.  A  person  of  even  common  good  feeling, 
after  having  read  this  book,  would  be  apt  to  think  twice, 
before  giving  either  utterance  or  ear  to  a  single  detracting 
word.  F.  H.  G. 


Kind  Words — Use  them. — Because  they  fall  pleasantly 
on  the  ears  of  all  to  whom  they  are  addressed,  and  it  is 
therefore  one  of  the  ways  of  promoting  human  happiness. — 
Because  they  give  an  expression  in  your  favor,  and  thus 
prepare  the  way  for  your  greater  influence  over  others  for 
good. — Because  your  kind  words  powerfully  contribute  to 
soothe  and  quiet  your  own  spirit,  when  ruffled  by  the  un- 
kind ness  of  others. — Because  they  show  the  difference  be- 
tween you  and  the  rude,  malicious,  or  revengeful,  and  are 
suited  to  show  them  their  wrong. — Because  they  are  suited 
to  stir  up  the  kind  affections  of  your  own  heart.  There  is 
sweet  music  in  such  voices  rightly  to  affect  the  heart. — Be- 
cause they  are  so  uncommon,  use  them,  that  there  may  be 
more  of  such  bright  stars  in  our  dark  firmanent. — Because 
they  aid  in  carrying  out  the  Divine  injunction — "Be  cour 
teous,"  "  Be  kindly  affectioned  one  to  another." 


TO    MY  WIFE. 


BY  LINDLEY  MURRAY. 


When  on  thy  bosom  I  recline, 
Enraptur'd  still  to  call  thee  mine, 

To  call  thee  mine  for  life, 
I  glory  in  the  sacred  ties, 
(Which  modern  wits  and  fools  despise,) 

Of  Husband  and  of  Wife. 

One  mutual  flame  inspires  our  bliss ; 
The  tender  look,  the  melting  kiss, 

Even  years  have  not  destroy'd ; 
Some  sweet  sensation,  ever  new, 
Springs  up,  and  proves  the  maxim  true, 

That  love  can  ne'er  be  cloy'd. 

Have  J  a  wish  ? — 'tis  all  for  thee ; 
Hast  thou  a  wish  ? — 'tis  all  for  me  : 

So  soft  our  moments  move, 
That  angels  look  with  ardent  gaze, 
Well  pleas'd  to  see  our  happy  days, 

And  bid  us  live — and  love. 

If  cares  arise — and  cares  will  come — 
Thy  bosom  is  my  softest  home — 

I'll  lull  me  there  to  rest: 
And  is  there  aught  disturbs  my  fair? 
I'll  bid  her  sigh  out  every  care, 

And  lose  it  in  my  breast. 

Have  I  a  wish  ? — 'tis  all  her  own ; 
All  her's  and  mine  are  roll'd  in  one : 

Our  hearts  are  so  entwined, 
That,  like  the  ivy  round  the  tree, 
Bound  up  in  closest  amity, 

'Tis  death  to  be  disjoined. 


FELIX,  THE  STUDENT. 


65 


class  had  procured,  as  he  said,  "a  fine  subject,"  and  we  only- 
awaited  the  arrival  of  the  Professor  before  it  was  produced. 
Felix — who  was  the  pupil  appointed  to  demonstrate  on  that 
evening — was  busy  in  preparing  his  instruments  for  opera- 
tion. Never  can  the  scene  be  effaced  from  my  memory. 
Custom  had  banished  all  feeling  of  sympathy,  and  the  laugh 
and  gibe  went  merrily  around.  At  length  the  Professor 
arrived.  The  body  was  placed  upon  the  table,  and  each 
student,  with  his  knife  in  hand,  stood  ready  to  assist. 

"  Mr.  D  ,"  said  the  Professor,  "  are  you  ready  to  pro- 
ceed ?» 

"  I  am,  sir,"  replied  D  ;  and,  removing  the  oil-cloth 

which  had  been  carefully  thrown  over  the  subject,  he  was 
about  to  plunge  his  knife  into  the  body,  when  he  uttered  a 
wild,  unearthly  shriek,  and  fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 

"What  can  this  mean?"  said  the  Professor  :  "  raise  him." 
Quick  as  lightning  we  did  so,  and,  applying  some  remedies, 
restored  him  once  more  to  reason. 

"Take  me  hence — take  me  hence,"  he  feebly  uttered. 
"Touch  her  not — she  is  mine.  Emily! — poor  Emily  !  do 
not  mutilate  that  breast  on  which  I  have  a  thousand  times 
reposed  !  Take  me  hence — I  am  dying  !"  and  he  sunk 
exhausted  into  our  arms,  and  was  borne  from  the  room.  A 
carriage  having  been  procured.  I  attended  him  home,  and 
saw  him  committed  to  the  care  of  his  young  and  affectionate 
wife,  but  he  shrunk  from  her  presence  as  from  the  glance 
of  a  basalisk.  "  Leave  me,"  he  said  to  her,  "  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  I  have  some  instructions  to  give  to  my  friend  here  ; 
I  shall  send  for  you  shortly."  She  fondly  kissed  his  pallid 
brow,  and  with  the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes,  unwil- 
lingly obeyed  him. 

As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  "Crime,"  said  he,  "you  per- 
ceive, cannot  be  concealed.  You  have  twice  beheld  my 
strange  conduct ;  I  will  no  longer  deny  the  cause  of  it.  The 
young  female  whose  body  this  evening  was  to  have  served 
for  our  operations,  is  one  of  my  victims.  She  it  was,  on  that 
evening  when  you  were  first  a  witness  to  my  wildness,  sought 
charity  at  my  hand.    From  the  hour  that  I  had  betrayed 


FELIX,  THE  STUDENT. 


her  up  to  that  night,  I  had  lost  all  trace  of  her ;  and  although 
I  have  since  been  untiring  in  my  search,  yet  have  I  been 
unsuccessful.  Save  the  body,  I  beseech  you,  from  the  knife  ; 
let  it  rest  in  peace  ;  it  is  the  only  atonement  I  now  can  make. 
Promise  me  this  ere  reason  leaves  me,  fori  feel  that  madness 
is  weaving  her  spell  about  my  brain." 

"  Compose  yourself,"  I  said  :  "  since  you  have  erred,  repent- 
ance yet  may  bring  you  peace." 

"  Never !  never !    Peace  only  is  for  me  in  the  grave.  Fly, 

my  dear  R  !  for  the  love  of  heaven,  secure  the  body  from 

desecration,  and  consign  it  to  the  dust ;  that  done,  return 
and  tell  me  all.  Emily  !  poor  blighted  blossom  !  curses, 
curses  on  yo.ur  seducer !"  and  he  frantically  tore  his  hair 
and  wept. 

Finding  that  neither  consolation  or  advice  was  of  avail, 
I  left  him,  and,  having  procured  a  coffin  at  the  nearest  un- 
dertaker's, had  the  corse  placed  within  it.  But,  judge  of  my 
astonishment,  when  I  recognized  the  features  to  be  those  of 
the  young  girl  whom,  with  the  doctor,  I  had  a  fortnight  before 
visited.  My  curiosity  was  aroused,  and  I  immediately  repair- 
ed to  the  wretched  hovel,  where  from  the  old  woman  I  learned 
that  poor  Emily  had  two  days  before  been  by  death  released 
from  her  sufferings.  As  an  outcast  from  society,  an  "  unfor- 
tunate woman"  as  the  delicate  phraseology  of  the  world 
terms  it,  she  had  been  buried  without  a  friend  to  weep  a  tear 
upon  her  ashes,  and  now  from  the  grave  had  the  body  been 
torn  to  supply  the  dissecting-room.  On  the  following  morn- 
ing I  saw  it  again  committed  to  the  dust. 

Of  Felix  what  shall  I  say  ?  Alas,  his  prediction  was  truly 
and  fearfully  fulfilled  !  Madness  did  indeed  claim  him  for 
its  victim.  He  yet  lives.  I  saw  him  last  summer  the 
inmate  of  a  mad-house.  He  did  not  remember  me.  The 
walls  were  scrawled  over  with  the  name  of  Emily — a  name 
which  the  keeper  told  me  was  the  only  sound  that  ever  passed 
his  lips.  Poor  Felix  !  how  dearly  hast  thou  expiated  thy 
error !    How  true  are  the  words  of  the  poet. — 

"Though  the  betrayer  deems  himself  secure, 
Yet  God's  revenge,  though  slow,  is  ever  sure." 


FEMALE  KINDNESS. 


BY  ISAAC  M'LELLAN,  JR. 

"I  have  observed  among  all  nations,  that  the  women  are  ever  the  same 
kind,  civil,  obliging-,  humane,  tender  beings;  that  they  are  ever  inclined 
to  be  gay,  timorous,  and  modest.  I  never  addressed  myself  in  the  lan- 
guage of  decency  and  friendship  to  a  woman,  whether  civilized  or  savage, 
without  receiving  a  decent  and  friendly  answer.  In  wandering  over  the 
plains  of  inhospitable  Denmark,  through  honest  Sweden,  frozen  Lapland, 
rude  and  churlish  Finland,  unprincipled  Russia,  and  the  wide-spread 
regions  of  the  wandering  Tartar,  if  hungry,  dry,  cold,  wet,  or  sick,  woman 
has  ever  been  friendly  to  me,  nnd  uniformly  so ;  and  to  add  to  this  virtue 
so  worthy  of  the  application  of  benevolence,  these  actions  have  been  per- 
formed in  so  free  and  kind  a  manner,  that  if  I  was  dry,  I  drank  the  sweet 
draught,  and  if  hungry,  ate  the  coarse  morsel,  with  a  double  relish." — 
Ledyard. 

Beyond  the  ever-rocking  deep, 
O'er  deserts  bleak,  and  regions  green, 

From  month  to  month,  from  year  to  year, 
Unwearied  still  my  way  hath  been. 

My  pilgrim  staff  hath  cross'd  the  snows 

O'er  frozen  Labrador  that  roll, 
And  scaled  the  icy  pinnacles 

Far  up  the  wintry  northern  pole. 
Upon  the  iceberg's  glassy  top, 

Upon  the  glacier's  crystal  crest, 
Oft  times  my  tempest-beaten  head 

Has  found  a  'pillow  for  its  rest. 
Along  the  bare  and  sandy  waste 

That  border's  Afric's  yellow  shore, 
These  limbs,  from  dawn  of  day  till  eve, 

Have  oft  their  weary  burden  bore. 

On  every  shore,  in  every  clime, 

In  tropic  or  in  frigid  zone, 
Wearied  and  fainting  by  the  way, 

Famished,  athirst,  and  sick,  and  lone, 


FEMALE  KINDNESS. 


In  woman's  soft  and  melting  heart 
A  sympathetic  balm  I've  found — 

A  spirit  ever  prompt  to  heal 
The  smarting  pang  and  galling  wound. 

The  wintry  day  was  chill  and  bleak, 

And  to  its  setting  sank  the  sun, 
When  worn  with  travel,  faint  and  weak, 

I  faltered  o'er  the  dreary  waste. 
Across  the  wide  champaign  of  France 

My  toilsome  way  all  day  had  led, 
And  long  the  heavy  road  did  seem 

To  lengthen  to  my  weary  tread. 
At  length,  exhausted,  I  reposed 

Where  fast  a  little  hamlet  stood, 
By  many  a  flowering  hedge  enclosed, 

E'en  bosomed  in  a  drooping  wood. 
Nor  long  upon  the  cheerless  sod 

The  stranger's  fainting  form  reclined 
For  forth  from  an  old  cottage  grey, 

(Its  lattice  with  green  vines  entwined,) 
A  dark-eyed  damsel  of  the  land 

Came  with  a  light  and  dancing  step, 
And  soon  with  hospitable  hand 

The  humble  door  was  open  thrown; 
And  all  my  freezing  veins  revived, 

As  high  the  genial  blaze  arose ; 
And  soon  the  snow-white  board  was  spread, 

And  the  soft  pillow  of  repose. 
And  long  that  cottage,  neat  though  poor, 
Oped  to  my  friendless  frame  its  door; 
Nor  other  guerdon  was  bestowed, 
Save  thanks  from  a  full  heart  that  flowed. 

Among  the  wild  majestic  cliffs 

That  tower  above  the  Svvitzer's  home, 
Far  'mid  the  everlasting  Alps, 

With  restless  feet  I've  loved  to  roam. 
Oft  met  the  glorious  sun  advance 

O'er  regal  Alps  with  burning  brow — 
Oft  seen  him  down  bleak  Wetterhorn — 

At  twilight  tinge  the  roseate  snow — 


FEMALE  KINDNESS. 


Oft  gild  the  Eigher's  frosty  peak, 

And  Finster  Aar-horn's  silver  crown ; 
And  paint  with  daylight's  latest  streak 

The  Jura  chain  with  golden  brown. 
Oft  with  the  mountaineer's  long  staff, 

Have  I  white  Bosson's  glacier  scaled ; 
And  on  the  gleaming  Mer-de-glace, 

Roamed  where  the  mountain  eagle  sailed 
And  even  'mid  that  airy  world, 

In  shepherd's  chalet,  chieftain's  hold, 
Shelter  and  rest  were  ne'er  denied 

In  summer's  heat  or  winter's  cold. 
And  ever  was  the  female  heart 

The  first  to  melt  at  my  distress. 
And  prompt  the  gentle  female  hand 

The  door  to  ope,  the  wound  to  dress, 
And  cheer  with  many  a  friendly  deed 
The  pilgrim,  at  his  utmost  need. 

Far  have  I  roamed  by  tumbling  Po, 
And  where  the  Tiber's  waters  flow, 
Laving  old  Rome's  imperial  feet, 

As  proudly  as  in  Ccesar's  day ; 
And  in  each  swarming  land  and  street, 

Amid  the  princely  Corso's  crowd; 
Toil-worn,  and  travel-stained,  I  found 

In  woman  balm  for  every  wound — 
A  smile  angelic  did  I  find, 
To  heal  the  body  and  the  mind. 

-  And  where  the  broad  and  lordly  Rhine 
Sweeps  by  wild  cliff  and  mountain  tall, 
Crowned  with  the  olive  and  the  vine, 

And  many  a  grey  baronial  hall, 
Thy  weary- wandering  frame  hath  shared 
The  poor  man's  feast,  howe'er  he  fared. 
From  matron  old  and  maiden  sweet 
The  self-same  succor  did  I  meet ; 
Nor  e'er  unwelcom'd  turned  away 
From  mossy  hut  or  cottage  grey. 

And  where  the  rapid  Danube  pours 
His  rolling  current  to  the  sea, 

Kind-hearted  woman  still  hath  been 
A  benefactor  unto  me. 


SOMETHING  WORSE  THAN  DEATH. 


In  crowded  Moscow's  noisy  street, 

Or  bleak  Siberia's  dreary  sand, 
The  cup  and  bread  were  still  supplied 

Unasked  for,  by  her  generous  hand. 
For  me  the  blazing  faggot  threw 

A  ruddier  flame  athwart  the  gloom — 
The  fading  Jamp  was  trimmed  anew — 

The  couch  spread  in  the  choicest  room — 
And  the  poor  pilgrim  of  the  road 
Freed  from  soiled  garb  and  weary  load. 

Sweet  woman !  when  the  hour  of  pain, 
And  when  the  hour  of  death  doth  come, 

What  hand  so  ready  to  sustain 

The  heavy  brow,  and  wipe  the  foam 

That  on  the  dying  lip  doth  lay, 

Or  wipe  the  dews  of  death  away  ? 

What  voice  so  sweet  to  soothe  the  ear, 
When  all  things  else  sound  harsh  and  cold? 

What  smile  so  sweet  the  soul  to  cheer  ? 
What  arms  so  tender  to  enfold? 


SOMETHING  WORSE  THAN  DEATH. 


'Tis  bitter  to  endure  the  wrong 

Which  evil  hands  and  tongues  commit, 

The  bold  encroachments  of  the  strong, 
The  shafts  of  calumny  and  wit ; 

The  scornful  bearing  of  the  proud, 

The  sneers  and  laughter  of  the  crowd. 

The  harder  still  it  is  to  bear 
The  censure  of  the  good  and  wise, 

Who,  ignorant  of  what  you  are, 
Or  blinded  by  the  slanderer's  lies, 

Look  boldly  on,  or  pass  you  by 

In  silence,  with  averted  eye. 


"I  AM  NOT  MAD,  MOST  NOBLE  FESTUS." 

St.  Paul 


If  'tis  madness,  when  cast  on  the  waves  of  the  ocean, 
And  toss'd  by  the  rage  of  its  surging  commotion, 
To  catch  at  the  spar  that  will  buoy  you  up, 
While  the  heart  tells  the  dying  pulsations  of  Hope; 
'Neath  the  load  of  despair,  with  a  fire  at  the  brain, 
Your  eyes,  almost  bursting,  you  anxiously  strain 
To  behold  the  bright  sail  of  some  ship  on  the  foam, 
To  restore  you  once  more  to  your  lov'd  ones  at  home, — 
Then  the  Christian  is  mad ! 

When  you  gaze  at  the  things  your  heart  has  long  cherish'd. 
And  behold  them  all  scatter'd,  and  wither'd,  and  perish'd ; 
If  'tis  madness  to  wish  for  the  power  to  give 
Those  lov'd  things  in  beauty  for  ever  to  live ; 
If,  when  friends  have  departed,  and  hopes  are  all  dead, 
And  the  lights  of  life's  pathway  for  ever  have  fled, 
'Tis  madness  to  look  through  the  gloom  of  earth's  night 
To  the  rise  of  a  morning  eternally  bright, — 
Then  the  Christian  is  mad ! 

If  'tis  madness  to  love  what  is  lovely  and  bright, 
And  hate  the  dark  things  of  pollution  and  night; 
To  fly  from  the  pit  where  lost  spirits  are  riven, 
And  long  for  the  beauty,  bliss,  glory  of  heaven ; 
To  enjoy  the  rapture  which  swells  the  loud  hymn 
Of  the  blest  ones,  and  angels,  and  high  cherubim ; 
To  follow  the  footsteps  of  Him  who  has  trod 
O'er  earth's  pains  to  the  throne  of  our  Father  and  God, — 
Then  the  Christian  is  mad ! 

c.  M.  F.  D 


If  there  were  no  opposition  between  inclination  and  good- 
ness, men  would  follow  what  is  good  ;  for  they  never  sink 
so  low  as  to  piefer  evil  because  it  is  evil. 


THEM  ATOPSIS. 


BY  MISS  A.  L.  FRASER. 


"  When  we  watch  long  by  the  sick  bed  where  a  loved  one  pines  slowlv 
in  her  beauty  at  the  approach  of  death,  and  see  the  roses  one  by  one 
fade  and  go  out,  the  smiles  and  the  loves  remain  about  the  pale  lips, 
we  soon  become  almost  content  to  bid  the  young  spirit  God  speed 
to  the  land  where  she  shall  mix  freely  with  kindred  souls  in  empyrean 
act,  and  behold  unveiled,  with  joy,  her  native  skies." 

How  beautiful  she  lay 

Upon  the  bed  of  death, 
Ere  from  the  lovely  clay 

Parted  the  fleeting  breath ! 
Could  one  so  loved  be  dying, 

Whose  gentle  voice  we've  heard, 
Sweetly  to  ours  replying, 

In  many  a  tender  word  ? 

Like  sculpture  fair  her  brow 

Gleamed  thro'  her  sunny  hair; 
How  rich  her  cheeks'  warm  glow ! — 

The  hectic  rose  was  there! 
Oh,  bright,  deceitful  blossom ! 

Flower  of  the  fatal  breath ! 
To  th'  eye  thou'rt  life  and  beauty — 

But  to  the  wearer,  death  ! 

Bright  shone  her  eye,  and  clear 

As  the  cloudless  blue  of  heaven ; 
Its  spirit  light,  how  dear — 

How  soon  to  darkness  given! 
Now  she  has  pass'd  the  shadow ; 

Ours  is  the  void — the  gloom : 
She  bathes  in  love's  pure  ocean, 

Far,  far  beyond  the  tomb. 

Sweetly  the  morning  star, 

Fading,  is  lost  in  light ; 
So  fled  the  maid  afar, 

Forever  from  our  sight. 
Weep  not :  she  dwelt  among  us, 

A  bird  of  brighter  skies ; 
Whose  song  is  sweet  when  fettered, 

But  sweeter  when  she  flies. 


Uto%rs  anir  SDaugljters  of  %  Bible 


RUTH. 

BY    REV.    S.    D.  BURCHARD. 

A  celebrated  English  author  once  proposed  to  a  com- 
pany of  British  lords  and  ladies  to  entertain  them,  by  read- 
ing a  story  of  pastoral  life — a  production,  as  he  intimated,  of 
rare  merit.  They  met ;  the  Book  of  Ruth  was  read,  simply 
substituting  different  names.  The  party  were  delighted, 
charmed,  with  the  simple  and  truthful  narrative.  The 
most  extravagant  encomiums  were  passed  upon  the  heroine 
of  the  tale  Her  decision,  her  fortitude,  her  affection,  her 
modesty,  her  uncompromising  integrity,  and  piety,  were  pro- 
nounced to  be  above  all  praise.  All,  of  course,  were  anxious 
to  know  the  author  of  this  rare  and  romantic  story,  as  one 
who  might  grace  the  circles  of  literature  and  fashion.  They 
were  referred  to  the  Bible,  as  containing  this  remarkable  nar- 
rative. They  were  confounded  and  amazed,  not  knowing 
that  it  contained  a  gem  of  such  surprising  beauty  and 
interest. 

The  Bible  is  really  a  wonderful  book,  containing  poetry 
more  fascinating  than  any  production  of  uninspired  genius — 
"  truth,  stranger  than  fiction." 

Much  as  we  admire  the  poets  of  Pagan  antiquity,  we  do 
affirm  that  Homer  has  been  excelled  in  his  battle-scenes 
by  Miriam  and  Deborah.  The  Grecian  drama  rises  not  to 
the  sublimity  of  Job ;  and  where  shall  we  find  any  thing, 
even  in  the  Orphic  hymns,  to  compare  with  the  richness,  the 
sweetness,  the  melody  of  David?  Who  has  ever  sung,  like 
Jeremiah,  the  dirge  of  a  fallen  nation  ?  and  what  has  ever 


74 


RUTH. 


fallen  from  the  pen  of  the  novelist  so  poetic  and  pure,  so 
strange  and  spirit-stirring,  as  the  simple  delineations  contain- 
ed in  the  Books  of  Esther  and  Ruth  ?  We  yield  to  the  poets 
and  writers  of  fiction,  who  have  charmed  the  world  by  the 
magic  of  their  genius,  all  their  laurels.  We  shan  not  dispute 
their  greatness,  or  the  splendor  of  their  execution.  They 
have  written  for  time ;  they  have  delineated,  with  graphic 
beauty,  to  chain  the  gay  devotees  of  earth  and  sense.  But, 
for  the  Bible,  we  put  in  a  prouder  claim :  it  delineates  the 
character  of  the  Universal  Father  ;  it  throws  jout  its  simple 
verities,  so  as  to  afTect  the  character  and  destiny  of  earth's 
population.  "  Search  the  scriptures,  for  in  them  ye  think  ye 
have  eternal  life ;  and  they  are  they  which  testify  of  me."' 

The  Book  of  Ruth  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  by 
Samuel,  as  the  connecting  link  between  Judges  and  the 
books  bearing  his  name ;  and  for  truthful  simplicity  and 
poetic  beauty,  it  has  no  rival  either  in  ancient  or  modern 
literature.  No  more  graphic  history  ever  has  or  ever  can  be 
written  of  Ruth,  than  is  found  in  the  scriptural  record.  We 
can  add  no  lights  or  shadows  to  the  picture,  which  are  not 
found  in  beautiful  harmony  there.  We  cannot  improve  upon 
the  word  of  God.  All  we  propose,  is  to  present  to  the  mind 
of  the  reader  a  brief  analysis  of  the  character  of  the  artless 
heroine  of  our  story.  Of  her  young  life  we  know  but  little, 
save  that  she  was  educated  to  the  service  of  idolatry;  she 
had  often  danced  around  its  altars,  and  worshipped  at  its 
shrine.  Doubtless  she  was  sincere — earnest — devout;  but 
her  religion  was  vague — misty — shadowy — and  illy  adapted 
'to  develope  those  lofty  traits  of  character  which  afterwards 
distinguished  her  history  and  rendered  her  name  immortal. 
There  was  one  family  in  that  idolatrous  land  that  shone 
like  a  lamp  in  a  sepulchre  of  gloom  and  darkness.  It  was 
the  house  and  family  of  Elimelech.  He  had  lied  from  the 
altars  and  temple  of  his  own  highly-favored  country,  to  avoid 
the  pinching  effects  of  a  wide-spread  and  desolating  famine. 
We  do  not  justify  the  course  of  the  pious  Elimelech.  We 
think  he  erred  in  leaving  the  land  of  his  fathers,  with  ail  its 
hallowed  associations — its  beautiful  temple  of  worship — its 


RUTH. 


75 


high  privileges  and  blessings — and  going  to  a  land  of  spiritual 
darkness,  and  exposing  his  family  to  the  corrupting  influence 
of  a  false  and  fascinating  religion.  There  seems  to  have 
been  no  necessity,  in  his  circumstances,  for  such  a  removal. 
He  was  a  man  of  means,  of  influence,  and  of  honorable  con- 
nections in  the  Hebrew  commonwealth.  A  partial  distrust 
of  God,  and  a  secret  love  of  gain,  must  have  led  him  to  take 
a  false  step,  which  resulted  fatally,  in  the  over-rulings  of 
Providence,  to  the  forfeiture  of  his  own  life  and  the  fall  of 
his  family. 

His  two  sons  became  interested  in  the  daughters  of  Moab ; 
and,  in  violation  of  the  Divine  law,  they  were  subsequently 
married :  but  their  union  was  short ;  death  entered  that 
family  circle,  where  all  was  now  happy  and  hopeful  as  the 
young  innocence  of  childhood,  and,  despite  the  pleadings  of 
true-hearted  affection,  made  the  young  and  beautiful  wives 
widows,  and  their  home  desolate. 

Now  that  the  mother  was  bereft  of  her  earthly  all — of  her 
husband  and  her  two  sons — she  began  to  think  of  returning  to 
the  land  and  grave  of  her  fathers.  Her  two  daughters-in-law, 
Orpha  and  Ruth,  proposed  to  accompany  her;  but,  grasping 
in  her  mind  the  distance  and  dangers  of  the  journey,  her  im- 
poverished circumstances,  and  the  doubtful  manner  of  her 
reception  by  her  kindred  and  former  friends,  she  frankly, 
yet  with  trembling  solicitude,  advised  each  to  return  to  her 
mother's  house,  imploring  upon  them  the  benedictions  of  the 
God  of  Israel.  She  could  hold  out  to  them  no  inducements 
to  share  her  poverty  or  be  identified  with  her  doubtful  and 
subsequent  history ;  and,  with  true,  disinterested  affection, 
she  said,  "  '  Turn  again,  my  daughters  ;  go  your  way  ;  the 
Lord  deal  kindly  with  you,  as  ye  have  dealt  with  the  dead 
and  with  me.'  Then  she  kissed  them,  and  they  lifted  up 
their  voice  and  wept."  Poor  stricken  and  broken-hearted 
widow ! — she  preferred  to  bear  her  calamities  alone,  rather 
than  accept  the  offered  sacrifice  of  her  children  !  It  was  a 
moment  of  deep  trial  and  painful  and  conflicting  emotions — 
a  crisis  well  adapted  to  try  and  develope  the  character  of 
each.    Orpha  reented,  and  returned  to  her  home,  her  kin- 


76 


RUTH. 


died,  and  the  altars  of  Pagan  idolatry.  She  had  not  the 
strength  of  character  or  the  piety  of  Ruth,  who,  in  a  strain 
of  lofty  and  impassioned  eloquence,  replied  to  the  appeal  of 
Naomi,  "  'Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  or  to  return  from 
following  after  thee ;  for  whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go,  and 
where  thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge  :  thy  people  shall  be  my 
people,  and  thy  God,  my  God  :  where  thou  diest,  will  I  die, 
and  there  will  1  be  buried.  The  Lord  do  so  to  me  and  more 
also,  if  aught  but  death  part  thee  and  me  !"'  This  response 
of  the  Moabitess  was  effectual,  and  brings  out  in  bold  and 
beautiful  relief  the  striking  and  attractive  features  of  her 
character. 

Observe  her  heroic  decision  blended  with  becoming  diffi- 
dence and  respect.  Decision  is  an  element  of  character 
which  we  all  admire.  It  is  a  gem  that  adds  beauty  to  him 
who  possesses  it,  and  is  the  more  precious  in  this  world,  be- 
cause its  exhibition  is  comparatively  rare.  A  man  who  can 
face  sarcasm  and  scorn  without  relenting,  or  stand  firm  in 
his  integrity  amid  the  seductions  of  vice  and  the  fascinations 
of  pleasure — who  pursues  the  right,  through  persecution  and 
trial,  with  unfaltering  step — is  truly  a  moral  hero,  and  merits 
the  regards  and  high  admiration  of  his  fellow  men.  Such 
a  character  has  solidity  and  strength,  and,  when  discovered 
in  woman,  blended  with  appropriate  modesty  and  grace,  it 
is  a  most  rare  and  precious  jewel.  And  was  not  this  one 
of  the  crowning  characteristics  of  the  amiable  and  devoted 
Ruth  ?  She  had  deliberately  come  to  the  conclusion  to  for- 
sake the  land  of  her  nativity,  and  identify  her  fortunes  with 
the  widowed  and  afflicted  Naomi — and  nothing,  it  would 
seem,  could  turn  her  from  her  purpose.  On  the  one  hand 
were  the  associations  of  her  young  girlhood,  the  friends  of 
her  youth,  the  grave  of  her  companion,  and  the  prospect  of 
an  honorable  competency,  in  the  land  of  Moab — all  pleading 
with  her  to  remain.  On  the  other,  toil  and  exposure,  danger 
and  trial,  perhaps  desertion  and  perpetual  widowhood,  seem- 
ed to  forbid  her  journey  to  Canaan.  But,  in  view  of  all  this, 
she  was  firm  in  her  resolve,  that  her  home,  her  country,  her 
people,  her  God,  her  grave,  should  be  the  home,  the  country, 


RUTH. 


77 


the  people,  the  God,  and  the  grave  of  her  bereaved  and 
stricken  mother.    You  will  perceive  that  her  purpose  was 
both  filial  and  religious.    She  had  formed,  during"  the  short 
period  of  her  residence  in  her  family,  an  unconquerable 
attachment  to  Naomi.    They  had  wept  and  worshipped 
together — they  had  been  mutually  and  deeply  afflicted — they 
had  stood  in  pensive  grief  over  the  grave  of  the  loved  and 
the  lost — their  hearts  had  been  cemented  by  discipline  and 
trial — and  no  considerations  of  worldly  gain  or  chilling  poverty 
could  separate  them.    Besides,  her  young  heart  had  been 
warmed  by  a  live  coal  from  off  the  Hebrew  altar.    She  had 
witnessed  the  living  and  radiant  piety  of  Naomi,  amid  a 
region  of  extended  gloom  and  darkness.    She  had  seen  her 
meek  patience  and  heroic  fortitude  under  the  most  crushing 
and  accumulated  misfortunes  ;  and  she  was  persuaded  that 
an  invisible  and  Divine  arm  must  have  been  her  solace  and 
support.    She  had  been  impressed  by  the  example  of  the 
living,  and  by  the  calm  and  triumphant  faith  of  the  dying, 
with  the  superior  excellence  of  the  religion  of  the  Hebrews 
to  the  religion  which  cast  its  dark  and  lengthened  shadows 
over  the  land  of  Moab.    She  had  never  indeed  seen  the 
Tabernacle,  with  its  solemn  rites  and  awful  mysteries.  She 
had  never  beheld  the  shekinah  resting  upon  the  mercy-seat, 
and  shadowing  forth  the  presence  of  the  Infinite.    She  had 
never  listened  to  those  deep  and  organ-like  tones  which 
thrilled  the  hearts  of  the  hosts  of  Israel,  as  they  congregated 
for  worship  beneath  the  solemn  dome  and  around  the  sacred 
altars  of  their  venerated  temple.    But  she  had,  doubtless, 
heard  from  the  lips  of  her  sainted  husband  the  story  of 
God's  wonders  in  Egypt — his  miraculous  deliverance  of 
Israel — his  protection  and  providence  amid  the  perils  and 
privations  of  the  wilderness — his  sublime  manifestations  upon 
the  awful  mount — his  formal  delivery  of  the  law  to  the  awe- 
stricken  multitudes — their  subsequent  introduction  and  set- 
tlement in  the  land  of  Canaan.    All  this  may  have  operated 
fowerfully  upon  her  sensitive  nature,  to  strengthen  her 
decision,  and  prefer  the  God  of  Israel  to  the  gods  of  Moab. 


78 


RUTH. 


She  had  become  convinced  that  the  religion  of  the  Hebrews 
was  the  true  religion,  and  that  their  God  was  the  only  living 
and  true  God.  She  had  lost  confidence  in  heathenism.  It 
was  dark,  cold,  and  cruel — affording  no  solace  in  trouble, 
and  shedding  no  light  over  the  gloom  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
and  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  abandon  it  for  ever :  and 
no  solicitations  of  friendship,  no  appeals  of  worldly  policy, 
no  threatening  obstacles  or  frowning  poverty,  could  shake 
her  high  resolve,  or  intimidate  her  in  the  path  of  duty.  She 
would  be  identified  with  the  bereaved  Naomi,  and  her  God 
and  people  should  be  hers,  come  what  would  ! 

We  scarcely  know  which  to  admire  most — her  deep  devo- 
tion to  her  mother-in-law,  or  her  unbending  purpose  to  yield 
to  the  convictions  of  duty.  Both  are  beautiful,  and  both 
have  helped  to  embalm  her  name  in  the  grateful  remem- 
brances of  posterity. 

She  was  advised  by  Naomi  to  return — to  go  back  to  her 
kindred  and  her  father's  house.  Perhaps  she  thought  she 
would  be  happier,  so  far  as  personal  comfort  and  worldly 
advantage  are  concerned,  to  return  to  the  land  of  Moab  ;  or 
perhaps  she  wished  to  test  the  sincerity  and  strength  of  her 
affection.  She  was  now  a  widow — poor,  heart-stricken,  and 
lonely  ;  and  she  well  knew  that  many  who  make  high  pro- 
fessions of  love — who  flatter  and  fawn  in  times  of  prosperity — 
disappear  like  snow-flakes,  when  sorrow  or  adversity  comes ; 
and  she  desired  proof  of  Ruth's  devotion,  in  view  of  the  most 
frowning  and  adverse  circumstances.  And  did  her  plea  to 
return,  prevail?  No;  the  very  reasons  that  she  had  urged 
for  her  return,  awoke  the  strong  wotrianly  affection  of  her 
nature,  and  she  would  not  desert  her  mother-in-law  in  the 
time  of  her  deep  poverty.  She  would  help  her,  lighten  her 
sorrows,  and  bear  the  burdens  of  her  crushed  heart.  With 
her  warm  and  sensitive  heart,  all  throbbing  and  alive  to  the 
interest  of  her  mother,  she  felt  prepared  for  any  emergency. 
Let  storms  and  trials  flood  her  way  to  Canaan,  and  the  wa- 
ters of  affliction  drench  her  shivering  form,  still  her  language 
to  Naomi  is,  " '  Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go,  and  where 


RUTH. 


79 


thou  lodges!,  I  will  lodge :  thy  people  shall  be  my  people, 
and  thy  God,  my  God  :  where  thou  diest,  will  I  die,  and  there 
will  I  be  buried!''"' 

Can  we  conceive  of  anything  more  beautiful  or  sublime 
in  woman's  character  ?  But  how  the  firmness  of  her  resolute 
and  heroic  nature  rises  in  our  estimation,  at  beholding  her 
cleaving  to  Naomi,  not  merely  to  perform  offices  of  dutiful 
affection,  but  that  she  might  stand  with  her  in  the  same 
covenant  relations  to  the  God  of  Israel,  and  share  his  bene- 
dictions and  smiles.  Her  new  faith  imparted  a  sublimity 
to  her  character,  and,  like  the  morning  star  glittering  above 
the  horizon,  announces  a  day  of  gladness  succeeding  the 
night  of  her  deep  gloom.  Sustained  by  this  faith,  she  was 
enabled  to  resist  every  solicitation  of  flesh  and  sense,  and 
pursue  the  path  of  duty,  although  it  might  lead  to  hardship, 
contempt,  and  poverty. 

In  language  similar  to  the  prophetic  declaration  of  her 
royal  descendant,  did  the  voice  of  Heaven  speak  to  her  heart : 
"Hearken,  O  daughter,  and  consider,  and  incline  thine  ear; 
forget  also  thine  own  people  and  thy  father's  house  :  so  shall 
the  King  greatly  desire  thy  beauty,  for  he  is  thy  Lord,  and 
worship  thou  him." — Ps.  xlv.  10,  11. 

To  this  voice  she  heartily  responded,  and  they  both  pur- 
sued their  long  and  weary  way  to  Bethlehem.  Many,  doubt- 
less, were  their  surmises,  fears,  and  deep  anxieties,  about  the 
future;  but,  faith  was  triumphant — their  journey  is  ended — 
and  the  young  Moabitess  is  a  gleaner  in  the  rich  fields  of 
Boaz.  Here  another  admired  trait  appears  in  the  character 
of  Ruth.  She  submits  her  hands,  unused  to  toil,  to  the  hard 
drudgery  of  the  harvest-field.  She  had  been  delicately 
trained  in  the  land  of  Moab  ;  she  had  moved  in  the  gay 
saloons  of  pleasure  ;  she  had  been  admired  and  caressed  for 
her  beauty  and  virtue,  and  was  illy  prepared  for  so  hard  a 
lot ;  but  unmurmuringly  she  submits,  and,  prompted  by 
affection,  and  with  a  happy  heart,  she  says  to  Naomi,  "'Let 
me  now  go  to  the  field,  and  glean  ears  of  corn :'  and  she  said 
unto  her,  '  Go,  my  daughter :'  and  she  went  and  gleaned 
in  .he  field  after  the  reapers."    And  the  God  "  under  whose 


80 


RUTH. 


wings  she  had  come  to  trust,"  favored  her,  and  at  nightfall 
she  returned  to  her  mother,  laden  with  the  precious  fruits 
of  her  labor.  Her  strange  beauty,  her  unaffected  modesty, 
and  respectful  address,  had  attracted  the  attention  of  Boaz, 
and  he  had  directed  the  reapers  to  treat  her  kindly,  and  to 
let  fall  handfulls  of  grain  on  purpose  for  her.  In  this  direc- 
tion he  had  respect  not  only  to  the  beautiful  stranger,  but 
to  the  law  of  Moses — forbidding  to  reap  wholly  the  corners 
of  the  field,  or  to  gather  the  gleanings  of  the  harvest,  but 
commanding  to  leave  them  for  the  poor  and  the  stranger. 
Ruth  acknowledged  the  favor,  and  with  artless  simplicity 
said,  " '  Why  have  I  found  grace  in  thine  eyes,  that  thou 
shouldest  take  knowledge  of  me,  seeing  I  am  a  stranger  ?' 
And  Boaz  answered  and  said  unto  her,  'It  hath  fully  been 
showed  me  all  that  thou  hast  done  unto  thy  mother-in-law 
since  the  death  of  thine  husband,  and  how  thou  hast  left 
thy  father  and  thy  mother,  and  the  land  of  thy  nativity, 
and  art  come  unto  a  people  which  thou  knewest  not  hereto- 
fore. The  Lord  recompense  thy  work.' "  This  address  of 
Boaz  was  peculiarly  grateful  to  the  heart  of  the  young 
maiden.  He  intimates,  that  he  had  heard  of  her  devotion 
to  her  afflicted  mother-in-law — the  noble  sacrifice  she  had 
made  for  the  truth's  sake — her  decided  preference  for  the 
people  of  God  to  her  idolatrous  kindred. 

It  seems  that  the  arrival  of  Naomi  with  the  beautiful 
stranger  had  produced  no  little  sensation  in  the  quiet  town 
of  Bethlehem.  Her  changed  appearance,  her  unprotected 
and  prostrate  condition,  excited  the  deep  sympathy  of  the 
people,  and  "  all  the  city  was  moved  about  them,  and  they 
said,  'Is  this  Naomi?'  And  she  said  unto  them,  'Call  me 
not  Naomi ;  call  me  Mara — for  the  Almighty  hath  dealt 
very  bitterly  with  me.  I  went  out  full,  and  the  Lord  hath 
brought  me  home  again  empty  :  why  then  call  ye  me  Naomi, 
seeing  the  Lord  hath  testified  against  me,  and  the  Almighty 
hath  afflicted  me?'"  Her  original  name  was  in  keeping 
with  her  circumstances — affluent,  pleasant ;  but  now  that 
the  Almighty  had  "dealt  bitterly"  with  her,  she  preferred 
to  be  called  Mara — which  signifies  bitter.    Boaz  had  not 


GENERAL  WARREN. 


One  of  the  consequences  of  the  singularly  rapid  growth 
of  America,  is,  that  life-remembered  things  have  become 
already  matters  of  history.  The  mighty  convulsion  which 
shook  the  strong  fabric  of  European  society  to  its  very  centre, 
subverted  the  domination  of  centuries,  and,  as  it  were,  with 
a  touch  of  the  enchanter's  wand,  changed  the  destinies  of 
millions  of  lives,  even  within  the  memory  of  some  of  the 
very  men  through  whose  agency  Almighty  wisdom  worked 
out  its  decree. 

Inasmuch  as  no  human  prescience  could  have  pointed  out 
the  means  to  achieve  this  wondrous  end,  so  no  human  saga- 
city could  have  imagined  aught  to  avert  its  consummation. 
"It  was  written  in  the  book  of  destiny."  The  same  Holy 
voice  that  from  conflicting  atoms  called  the  universe  into 
existence,  bade  the  sun  of  freedom  rise3  and  it  was  obeyed — 
it  was  accomplished  ! 

At  the  close  of  a  raw,  comfortless  day,  in  the  early  part 
of  the  eventful  year  1775,  a  group  of  young  men  were  col- 
lected together  in  a  small  but  neat  and  comfortable  house 
in  the  little  village  of  Lexington.  They  were  in  whispered 
but  earnest  conversation,  and,  from  the  stern  determination 
pictured  in  each  countenance,  it  was  evident  that  no  trivial 
matter  had  drawn  them  together. 

"  More  news,*'  said  one,  under  his  compressed  teeth  :  "  they 
have  determined  that  Boston  must  suffer.  The  'rebels* 
must  be  stoned  into  subjection,  it  appears." 

"Well,  they're  right,"  said  another,  "if  they  can  do  it. 
The  only  means  by  which  they  can  get  the  Yankees  to  suc- 
cumb will  be  to  kill  them  outright,  if  they  let  them;  but 
every  life  now  lost,  will  be  a  thousand  gained  to  us :  the 


74 


GENERAL  WARREN. 


crisis  has  arrived  at  last,  roused  by  continued  acts  of  injus- 
tice and  oppression.  The  people — not  a  few  factious  indi- 
viduals, who,  for  personal  aggrandizement,  would  feign  an 
ardor  which  they  did  not  feel — but  the  bone,  muscle,  and 
sinew  of  the  country — the  people  begin  to  feel,  to  know,  and 
to  deliberate.  Oh  !  with  what  an  inward  thrill  of  joy  I  gaze 
upon  determined  faces  as  I  pass  along — look  into  eyes  whose 
purpose  shows  itself,  though  yet  unspoken — meet  the  stern 
grasp  instead  of  the  easy,  careless  salutation  ! — proofs  that 
one  secret  but  o'ervvhelming  thought  pervades  all  hearts." 

"  True,  Russell,"  replied  the  other,  "  the  people  are  pre- 
pared ;  but,  to  act  in  general  concert,  it  will  be  necessary  to 
discover  one  man  whose  evident  and  unquestionable  fitness 
would  declare  him  fated  to  direct  the  whole." 

"  And  so  we  shall :  that  Providence  which  has  so  surely 
decreed  the  evil,  will  not  deny  us  the  means.  I  myself 
know  one  who,  if  his  present  promise  be  but  an  earnest  of 
his  future  greatness,  will  achieve  a  name  whose  glories  will 
o'ershadow  e'en  the  brightest :  modest  in  deportment,  reserved 
in  manner,  an  enemy  to  ambition,  uniting  in  a  curious  de- 
gree the  opposites  of  caution  and  energy.  Prudent  in  de- 
ciding, but  firm  and  prompt  in  action,  I  am  much  mistaken 
or  his  deeds  will  keep  his  memory  fresh  in  the  hearts  of  his 
countrymen  from  age  to  age,  till  ( time  beholds  the  wreck 
of  all.' " 

"His  name?" 

"George  Washington." 

And  that  undying  name  which,  uttered  since,  has  made 
the  hearts  of  millions  swell  with  rapturous  thrill,  was  listen- 
ed to  without  one  quickened  pulse. 

"  But  what  of  Warren  ?"  resumed  Russell.  "  Has  he  been 
sounded  ?" 

"No  need  of  sounding,  when  every  feeling  of  his  honest, 
manly  heart,  is  indexed  in  his  face." 

"  How  is  it  that  we  never  see  him  ?" 

"  His  home  is  now  his  sole  consideration.  I  know  him 
well :  the  universal  thought  which  fills  all  hearts,  his  is  not 
exempt  from.    But  his  young  wife  and  infant  make  him 


GENERAL  WARREN. 


75 


cling  to  home  as  to  a  paradise  :  to  lose  them,  would  be  to  him 
perdition." 

"I  think  you  misjudge  him,"  said  one  of  the  group. 
"There's  more  of  the  stern  sacrificing  virtue  of  the  Roman 
character  in  Warren  than  you  give  him  credit  for.  But  see, 
he  is  here." 

It  was  thus  unexpectedly  that  Warren  appeared  for  the 
first  time  among  the  confederated  patriots. 

Many  months  had  they  mett  together  for  the  purpose  of 
deliberating  on  the  present  aspect  of  affairs,  and  never  before 
had  he  taken  any  part  in  their  proceedings.  It  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at  then  that  he  was  accused  of  at  least  lukewarm- 
ness  by  the  ardent  partizans  who  had  embarked  in  the  (as 
yet  hardly  defined)  enterprize,  hand  and  heart,  body  and 
soul ! 

Delighted  at  this  spontaneous  evidence  of  his  willingness 
to  join  in  their  deliberations,  they  welcomed  Warren  with 
enthusiasm.  He  was  looked  upon  as  the  first  man  in  the 
place,  and  consequently  his  countenance  and  support  would 
bring  fresh  converts  to  the  cause,  cheer  its  supporters,  and 
make  the  wavering  decide. 

The  appearance  of  Warren  was  striking  in  the  extreme. 
Young,  tall,  and  of  elegant  proportions,  he  possessed  that 
indefinable  aspect  of  superiority  to  which  men  in  their  own 
despite  pay  homage — the  nobility  of  nature,  stamped  by 
Heaven's  own  hand  upon  his  brow. 

The  first  cordial  salutation  over,  there  was  a  pause,  and 
slight  embarrassment  crept  over  the  features  of  all,  but  it 
was  dissipated  in  an  instant  by  Warren's  frank  and  noble 
words : — 

"  My  friends,"  said  he,  "  why  dissimulation — why  the 
semblance  of  restraint,  when  this  nervous  grasp,  like  an 
electric  touch,  declares  our  hearts  to  beat  in  unison — our 
country's  cause  ?" 

To  the  death  !"  they  all  cried,  simultaneously,  catching 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  speaker. 

*  Aye,  to  the  death  !"  replied  Warren,  with  flashing  eye 
and   startling  emphasis — "to  the  death!    What  luxury  of 


76 


GENERAL  WARREN. 


life  compares  with  such  a  glorious  destiny,  to  die  for  liberty ! 
Heaven  grant  it  may  be  mine  !  To  my  beloved  country 
I  have  dedicated  every  thought :  let  me  but  seal  the  freedom 
with  my  blood,  and  'twill  be  happiness  to  die.'' 

The  animated  discussion  that  followed  was  suddenly  in- 
terrupted by  the  appearance  of  an  individual  who,  breathless 
with  impetuous  haste,  burst  upon  the  assembly. 

"  Men  of  Lexington  !"  said  he,  "  it  behooves  you  to  be 
prepared  !  Have  your  nerves  up  for  the  coming  conflict ! — 
the  thunder-cloud  grows  darker !" 

"  The  news  from  Concord  ?"  demanded  Warren,  to  whom 
the  speaker  was  known. 

"News,"  said  the  comer,  "  which  I  know  will  stir  up  the 
best  blood  within  each  heart  here.  It  has  come  to  the  know- 
ledge of  the  British  general  that  we  have  been  for  some  time 
past  collecting  arms  and  ammunition  :  and  he  is  determined 
that,  cost  what  it  may,  they  shall  be  seized  ;  and  a  strong 
detachment  is  even  on  its  road  from  Boston.  In  a  day  or 
two  it  will  pass  through  the  village." 

"Brave  news!"  cried  Russell,  impetuously;  "now  is  the 
time  to  strike  !" 

"  Hold  ! — let  us  not  lose  sight  of  prudence  in  our  impetu- 
osity," replied  Warren.  "  It  will  be  difficult  to  let  our  foes 
pass  without  some  demonstration  of  opposal — but  pass  they 
must.  'Twill  take  many  days  ere  they  can  retrace  their 
steps — and  then,  if  I  augur  rightly,  we  shall  be  enabled  to 
collect  sufficient  friends  to  make  their  return  more  difficult 
than  they  imagine." 

"  But  why  not  assemble  at  Concord  '/"  said  one  ;  "the  arms 
and  ammunition  there  collected  will  be  useful  in  our  hands, 
and  a  heavy  loss,  if  seized." 

"Take  no  heed  for  that,"  replied  Warren;  "they  have 
been  dispersed  long  ago — some  ,  in  our  very  neighborhood. 
No,  no — the  time,  the  time  is  all  we  want  now.  Let  it  be 
understood  by  all,  that  our  enemies  may  pass  unmolested — 
but  every  inch  of  their  return  must  be  disputed." 

Concurring  in  the  views  of  their  leader — for  such  was 
W  arren  conceded  to  be — the  small  knot  of  patriots,  soon  to 
be  swollen  into  a  mass,  separated  for  the  night. 


GENERAL  WARREN. 


77 


In  a  few  days  after,  a  strong  detachment  of  military  did 
pass  through  Lexington  ;  and  the  quiet,  of  its  inhabitants 
and  apparently  deserted  state  of  their  houses,  had  an  ominous 
look  to  some  of  the  most  thinking.  It  is  matter  of  history 
that  in  a  conversation  respecting  it  between  two  officers, 
one  said — 

"See,  I  knew  they  dared  not  oppose  us:  the  houses  are 
shut  up,  the  windows  closed." 

"  Depend  upon  it,"  said  the  other,  "  toe  shall  be  fired  at 
from,  these  very  windows  on  our  return." 

A  week  passed  rapidly  over,  and,  by  dint  of  extraordinary 
exertion,  the  dozen  or  two  patriots  had  increased  their 
strength  to  hundreds.  The  British  detachment  seized  the 
few  useless  arms  found  at  Concord  ;  and  the  officer  in  com- 
mand either  deeming  the  information  to  be  overdrawn,  or, 
as  had  often  been  the  case,  wholly  fabricated,  prepared  to 
return  to  Boston,  then  their  head-quarters. 

It  is  now  the  close  of  the  day.  Warren  is  seated  in  his 
chamber,  his  wife  opposite,  and  their  sole  hope,  their  infant 
child,  sleeping  in  his  cradle.  Not  unconscious  of  the  high 
aspirations  that  fill  his  soul  is  she,  the  sharer  of  every  thought, 
the  soother  of  every  sorrow,  the  stimulator,  the  adviser  ;  and 
does  she  entertain  one  selfish  feeling?  No.  Knowing  the 
power  that  woman  always  has  to  shape  the  thought  and  to 
direct  the  energy  even  now,  when  every  moment  threatened 
instant  parting,  did  she  smother  her  almost  devotion,  and, 
with  a  kindling  eye  and  cheerful  look,  belying  the  woman's 
heart  that  trembled  in  her  bosom,  smile  an  approval  on  the 
glorious  cause  he  had  undertaken. 

"The  moment  approaches,  wife  of  my  heart,"  said  he, 
"  when  you  must  yield  up  every  domestic,  gentle  thought, 
and  cheerfully  bear  the  cross  which  the  need  of  our  country 
imposes.  Heaven  knows  how  tenderly,  how  truly  do  I  love 
thee  ;  and  may  the  sacrifice  I  make  in  leaving  this  my  happy 
home,  be  the  best  proof  of  devotedness,  and  prove  propitious 
to  our  great  cause  !" 

"Go,  Warren- -go!"  said  the  heroic  wife,  the  fire  of  pat- 
riotism beaming  in  her  eye.    "Tome  you  owe  but  iove, 


78 


GENERAL  WARREN. 


which  you  have  paid  to  the  uttermost ;  but  to  your  country, 
if  need  be,  you  owe  a  life  !  and  though  in  that  life  is  mine 
entwined,  yet  would  I  give  up  all  to  ensure  my  country's 
weal  !" 

"Fit  wife  for  a  patriot!"  said  the  lofty  Warren ;  "the 
thought  of  thee  and  thy  heart's  desolation  was  the  only 
obstacle  that  intervened  'twixt  me  and  my  soul-cherished 
hopes  :  nobly  have  you  answered  me.  Now,  my  oppressed, 
beloved  country,  I  am  all  thine  own  !" 

This  heart-uttered  aspiration  was  fitly  answered  by  a 
distant  shout. 

"  Ha  !  they  come  so  soon  ! — 'tis  well.  My  arms,  my  he- 
roine— my  arms!  -One  kiss,  my  child,"  cried  Warren,  "and 
then  for  a  name  that  must  endure  !  No  drop  of  blood  shed 
in  this  glorious  effort,  but  will  be  honored  by  a  nation's  tears, 
remembered  in  a  people's  gratitude."  Snatching  a  kiss  from 
his  sleeping  infant,  he  hastily  armed  himself,  and,  embracing 
his  tearless  but  fearfully  excited  wife,  cried,  "  Wife  of  my 
bosom,  let  me  have  thy  benediction  upon  my  work,  or  I  shall 
go  but  with  half  a  heart  !" 

"  Bless  thee — bless  thee  and  thy  cause  !"  she  replied. 
"  Bear  witness,  Heaven,  I  would  rather  live  upon  the  thoughts 
of  thy  renown  with  but  the  remembrance  of  thy  love  buried 
in  my  heart,  than  share  a  palace  with  an  enemy  to  freedom. 
Here,  from  my  own  hands,  take  this  instrument  of  war ! 
Far  better  thus,  than  live  to  see  thy  child  a  slave  !  Fare- 
well !    May  the  God  of  battles  protect  thee  !" 

Not  many  hours  after,  the  first  conflict  which  opened  the 
road  to  freedom  took  place.  Most  obstinately  was  every  foot 
of  ground  contested  through  the  village.  At  last,  nearly  cut 
to  pieces,  the  residue  of  the  detachment  fled  like  frightened 
sheep  before  the  victorious  army  of  patriots,  and  the  Battle 
of  Lexington  was  inscribed  with  a  pen  of  adamant  on  the 
imperishable  records  of  fame. 

From  that  day  the  career  of  Warren  was  one  continued 
succession  of  victories ;  but  never  did  he  see  his  smiling, 
happy  home  again  !  The  destiny  which  he  had  so  ardently 
desired,  awaited  him.    Almost  in  sight  of  the  Canaan  of 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 


79 


Freedom,  he  ratified  his  devotion  to  his  country  by  his  blood. 
On  the  very  threshold  of  his  hope's  consummation,  with  the 
shout  of  triumph  in  his  ears,  he  yielded  up  his  life,  encou- 
ragement on  his  lip. 

"Be  firm,"  he  cried — "flinch  not!  behold  your  banners ! 
stand  fast !  Ye  battle  for  the  right !"  and  thus  the  heroic 
Warren — his  eye  flashing  defiance  even  in  the  moment  of 
death — by  his  glorious  example,  stimulated  his  living  com- 
panions to  a  fresh  exertion,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  upon 
that  ground  which  is  now  hailed  as  the  landmark  of  liberty. 
His  last  fight  had  settled  the  destinies  of  his  country,  and 
gave  freedom  to  a  world. 


THE    AMERICAN  FLAG. 


BY   J.    It.  DRAKE. 


When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 

Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 

She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  renr'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud, 

And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 
When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 

And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven- 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 


To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war — 
The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimm'd  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier-eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn ; 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given! 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
For  ever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us 


WASHINGTON. 


BY  THE  LATE  JOHN  INMAN. 


The  name  of  our  great  patriot — of  the  only  man  to 
whom  the  world  renders  its  tribute  of  undivided,  unqualified 
homage— has  been  frequently  mentioned  of  late  in  the  poli- 
tical journals;  naturally  called  up  by  the  occurrence  of 
events  and  the  inception  of  designs  in  regard  to  which 
opinions  are  greatly  at  issue.  The  enquiry  has  been. — 
What  course  would  Washington  have  taken  under  circum- 
stances like  these  ?  and  it  is  a  striking  acknowledgment  of 
his  wisdom  and  virtue,  that  the  presumption  of  what  his 
conduct  would  have  been,  has  been  put  forward  as  an  un- 
answerable argument.  It  is  well  for  us  to  keep  ever  before 
our  eyes  the  nobleness  and  purity  of  his  character,  as  a  fit- 
ting subject  of  imitation. 

He  was  indeed  a  man — filled  to  overflowing  with  all  the 
elements  of  greatness,  and  working  out,  with  a  loftiness  of 
aspiration  and  a  constancy  of  purpose  that  by  man  have 
never  been  exceeded,  the  god-like  capacities  and  purposes 
of  his  existence.  Occupying,  as  he  did,  a  position  which 
exposed  him  to  the  gaze  and  scrutiny  of  all  men,  all  ages, 
and  all  nations,  and  scanned  as  his  character  and  actions 
have  been,  with  eager  solicitude,  for  nearly  half  a  century 
since  he  passed  away  from  the  world  in  which  he  filled  a 
station  so  great  and  so  imposing,  not  a  solitary  act  or  trait 
has  been  brought  to  light  that  can  diminish  the  reverence 
with  which  he  was  in  life  regarded  ;  but  ever,  as  the  space 
between  him  and  those  who  gaze  upon  him  expands  with 
the  lapse  of  years,  the  height  to  which  we  must  raise  our 
eyes  becomes  loftier  and  loftier,  and  still  his  awful  form 
stands  out  in  proportions  more  colossal  and  majestic. 


82 


WASHINGTON. 


His  duties  were  indeed  arduous  and  multiform — and  were 
they  not  all  fulfilled  with  as  much  exactitude  as  other  and 
lesser  men  exhibit  in  the  performance  of  such  as  are  least 
and  easiest?  High  and  noble  was  his  perception  of  the 
great  object  for  which  he  was  created — and  did  he  not 
achieve  it?  Just,  and  grand,  and  glorious  were  his  views 
of  human  capacity — and  did  he  not  act  up  to  them  ?  Weak- 
nesses we  know  that  he  must  have  had,  for  they  are  among 
the  constituents  of  humanity — but  he  knew  where  to  find 
the  strength  that  should  replace  them.  Tendencies  to  evil 
we  know  that  he  must  have  had,  for  they  belong  to  all  the 
posterity  of  Adam — but  he  had  the  power  and  the  will  to 
strive  against  and  overcome  them ;  and  so  perfect  was  his 
victory,  so  absolutely  was  he  master  of  himself,  so  trium- 
phant was  the  might  with  which  he  subdued  and  kept  down 
the  appetites  and  passions  which  must  at  times  have  risen 
in  rebellion  against  the  better  elements  of  his  immortal  be- 
ing, that  to  no  other  eye  but  that  of  God  was  the  struggle 
even  visible.  No  man  ever  saw  him  hesitating  between 
good  and  evil.  Tempted  he  might  be,  and  doubtless  was, 
like  other  men — but  so  little  power  had  temptation  to  move 
him,  that  it  could  not  gain  even  the  poor  triumph  of  a  doubt- 
ful conquest. 

Alike  calm,  dignified,  and  self-possessed  amid  the  excite- 
ment of  enterprize  and  danger,  and  the  relaxing  tranquillity 
of  familiar  social  intercourse — never  elated  by  prosperity 
or  depressed  by  ill-fortune — filling  stations  of  most  opposing 
character,  and  equally  great  in  all — performing  high  and 
trying  duties,  and  those  of  the  most  ordinary  grade,  with 
the  same  scrupulous  fidelity— ever  keeping  his  eye  fixed 
steadfastly  upon  the  highest  aim  of  a  being  created  for  im- 
mortality, and  ever  advancing  toward  it  with  a  constancy 
that  no  inducement  could  turn  aside,  as  with  a  vigor  of  pro- 
gress that  no  obstacle  could  for  a  moment  check — in  him 
we  see  exemplified  the  dignity  of  man.  as  he  was  designed 
to  be  when  the  Almighty  said,  "  Let  us  make  man  in  our 
image,  after  our  likeness ;"  and  there  is  scarcely  a  suspicion 
of  extravagance  in  the  idea  that  he  was  called  into  being 


HEART  WISHES.  83 

not  only  as  a  special  instrument  under  the  power  of  God 
to  achieve  the  deliverance  of  an  oppressed  people,  and  to 
proclaim  and  establish  before  all  nations  the  eternal  prin- 
ciples  of  freedom,  but  also  as  a  demonstration  to  all  man- 
kind, of  the  glory  and  brightness  and  majesty  that  reside 
in  the  soul  of  man,  and  that  may  be  brought  forth  to  shine 
as  the  stars  of  heaven,  if  man  will  but  rightfully  employ 
the  gifts  with  which  he  has  been  endowed  by  his  benevo- 
lent and  omnipotent  Creator. 


HEART  WISHES. 


I  would  not  wear  a  golden  crown, 

Nor  reign  upon  a  throne  ; 
But  o'er  one  true  and  loving  heart 

I  would  be  queen  alone. 

I  would  not  have  a  servile  throng 

Press  round  to  bow  the  knee; 
But  one  light,  free,  and  eager  step, 

Haste  homeward  unto  me. 

I  would  not  hear  the  stirring  shout 

Of  plaudits  far  and  wide— 
But  list  a  soft  voice  gently  speak 

My  name  at  eventide. 

I  would  not  have  a  sumptuous  couch, 

When  pain  had  laid  me  low — 
But  one  dear  arm  to  fold  my  form, 

One  hand  to  press  my  brow. 

I  would  not  have  proud  marble  piled 

Upon  my  lowly  head — 
But  simple  stone,  and  grassy  mound, 

And  one  to  weep  me  dead. 

I  would  not  have  the  breath  of  fame 

Attempt  my  worth  to  prove — 
But  I  would  have  one  warm  heart  keep 

The  memory  of  my  love. 

I  would,  belov'd,  to  thee  and  me, 

The  priceless  pearl  be  given, 
That  thy  true  heart  may  meet  mine  own, 

And  each  love  each  in  heaven.  s.  c.  c. 


JUDICIAL  MURDER. 


BY  THE  LATE  JOHN  INMAN 


Many  wise  and  good  men  contend  earnestly,  and  no 
doubt  conscientiously,  for  the  right  as  well  as  the  expe- 
diency of  putting  their  fellow-men  to  death  in  a  legal  way ; 
but  I  must  confess  that  I  can  see  neither  the  right  nor  the 
expediency.  In  fact,  I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity  to  put 
on  record,  for  such  good  end  as  the  testimony  of  an  indi- 
vidual may  achieve,  my  firm  conviction  that  the  taking 
of  life  deliberately,  and  with  all  the  sanctions  that  law  and 
legal  forms  can  give,  is  not  only  inexpedient,  but  a  crime. 
There  is  something  inexpressibly  horrible  in  the  thought  of 
going  coolly,  gravely,  dispassionately  to  work  for  the  Strang 
ling  of  a  fellow-creature.  The  victim  is  so  helpless — he 
stands  so  utterly  alone,  not  in  a  contest  with,  but  in  the 
irresistible  grasp  of  a  mighty  power.  If  he  could  even  seem 
to  have  a  chance  of  escape,  by  strength,  or  swiftness,  or 
cunning — but  no ;  the  banded  might  of  a  whole  nation,  of 
millions,  is  concentrated  in  the  hands  of  the  officials  who 
are  to  deal  with  him ;  all  the  appliances  and  enginery  that 
the  united  power  of  millions  can  create,  are  about  him  ;  he 
cannot  so  much  as  struggle.  In  the  plenitude  of  life  and 
health  and  vigor,  he  must  count  the  minutes  at  the  end  of 
which  he  shall  die.  A  tremendous  spell  is  on  him  ;  at  the 
appointed  time  he  must  walk  to  his  place  of  doom  ;  silent, 
unresisting,  hopeless,  without  an  effort,  he  must  stretch  forth 
his  hands  for  binding — submit  his  neck  to  the  deadly  rope. 
His  free  agency  is  gone — his  will  is  annihilated — he  is  a 
machine  in  the  hands  of  the  constructor,  moving,  not  by 
the  impulse  of  his  own  volition,  but  in  a  defined  track,  the 
ghastly  end  of  which,  glaring  hideously  upon  him,  is  de- 


» 

JUDICIAL    MURDER.  85 

struction  :  and  it  is  always  possible  that  he  has  not  deserved 
the  doom  awarded  to  him — possible  that  he  dies  to  expiate, 
as  it  is  called,  the  crime  of  another.  How  agonizing  must 
be,  in  such  a  case,  the  sense  of  wrong  and  injustice  in  his 
bosom!  What  deadly  cruelty  must  he  perceive  in  the  fiat 
that  cuts  him  off  from  life  and  all  its  blessings — that  widows 
his  wife  and  orphans  his  children — stamps  his  name  with 
infamy,  and  bequeaths  that  infamy  as  his  legacy  to  them 
upon  whose  infancy  he  had  smiled,  for  whose  advancing 
years  he  had  cared  and  toiled  and  hoped  ! 

A  poor  colored  girl  was  executed  in  New-Jerse3r,  not  long 
ago,  for  the  murder  of  her  master.  After  her  death,  the 
papers  said  that  she  was  scarcely  a  responsible  being ;  her 
intellect  was  of  the  lowest  grade — but  little  removed  from 
idiocy.  And  she  was  but  sixteen  years  of  age  !  If  all  this 
was  true,  how  dreadful  the  consummation  !  Not  for  her 
sake  so  much — not  in  regard  to  her — but  as  a  deed  for 
society  to  commit.  Her  life  was  of  little  value,  perhaps, 
even  to  herself ;  it  was  but  the  life  of  a  poor,  ignorant,  half- 
witted, friendless  creature  ;  its  circle  of  enjoyments  was 
very  limited  ;  the  mental  pangs  that  heralded  its  close  were 
not  keenly  felt ;  and  when  once  the  silver  cord  was  broken, 
philosophy  might  calmly  say  that  the  difference  was  but 
slight  between  death  then  and  death  after  the  lapse  of  ten 
or  twenty  or  thirty  years.  But  to  think  that  the  tremendous 
might  of  a  whole  people  was  arrayed  against  this  feeble 
creature  !  That  the  terrible  machinery  of  penal  law  was 
set  in  motion  to  extinguish  the  miserable  spark  that  glim- 
mered in  that  poor  frame  !  If  her  death  could  have  restored 
the  life  she  took,  it  would  have  been  something.  But  so- 
ciety could  gain  nothing  by  wreaking  its  revenge  on  her 
for  the  evil  she  had  done  ;  means  of  preventing  her  from 
doing  more  evil  were  easy,  though  she  were  allowed  to  live  ; 
and  experience  has  proved,  that  the  strangling  of  the  crimi- 
nal is  less  efficacious  than  other  means,  to  deter  others  from 
the  commission  of  the  same  offence. 

But  even  a  worse  case  has  recently  occurred  in  England. 
A  woman  was  convicted  and  condemned  to  death  for  the 


86 


JUDICIAL  MURDER 


murder  of  her  child.  She  was  poor  and  friendless — and  at 
the  trial  she  had  no  professional  defender.  In  the  proof  for 
the  prosecution,  however,  it  came  out  that  she  had  been  an 
inmate  of  a  work-house,  where  ker  sufferings  were  extreme  ; 
that  in  the  desperate  hope  of  faring  better  by  her  own  exer- 
tions, she  left  the  house  and  wandered  about  for  several 
days,  seeking  employment,  but  in  vain :  starving,  cold, 
heart-broken,  she  carried  her  child  from  street  to  street — 
was  heard  to  utter  expressions  of  despair — and  at  last  was 
rescued,  by  the  cruel  humanity  of  a  boatman,  from  the  wa- 
ters of  a  canal.  Life  was  all  but  extinct  in  her — in  the  child 
it  was  extinct.  She  was  resuscitated — imprisoned — tried — 
condemned.  When  asked  what  she  had  to  say  why  sen- 
tence of  death  should  not  be  pronounced  upon  her,  she  an- 
swered feebly,  hut  with  the  touching  eloquence  of  a  crushed 
spirit,  that  she  was  miserable,  oppressed,  tortured ;  that  she 
passed  days  without  food,  agonized  by  the  wailings  of  her 
starving  child ;  that  she  knew  not  what  she  did,  or  how  she 
got  into  the  water — whether  she  fell  in  through  weakness, 
or  threw  herself  in  while  destitute  of  reason.  Was  there 
anything  improbable  in  this?  was  it  inconsistent  with  the 
proved  facts  ?  might  not  humanity  rejoice  to  believe  it  ?  Yet 
the  judge  pronounced  sentence  of  death  jupon  her — the  jury 
did  not  even  recommend  her  to  mercy ;  and  she  was  left 
for  execution.  The  bloodthirsty  benevolence  of  law  spared 
no  pains  or  expense  to  recall  the  fleeting  breath  to  her  almost 
drowned  body,  only  that  it  might  be  taken  a  few  days  after- 
ward by  strangulation.  But,  happily,  the  ultimate  power 
of  life  and  death  was  in  a  woman's  hands — and  Victoria 
saved  the  victim  from  the  rope.  All  honor  to  her  for  the 
kindly  deed  t 


A  pebble  in  the  streamlet  scant 

Has  turn'd  the  course  of  many  a  river, 

A  dew-drop  on  the  baby  plant 
Has  warp'd  the  giant  oak  for  ever. 


THE    EXACTING  LOVER. 


"  First  catch  your  fish." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Howard,  I  don't  know  whether  to  con- 
sider you  a  rascal,  or  only  a  simpleton,"  exclaimed  a  young 
man  to  his  companion,  as,  at  a  late  hour  in  the  evening, 
they  descended  the  steps  of  a  handsome  house  in  Broad- 
way. 

"  You  do  me  too  much  honor  in  allowing  me  the  alter- 
native," was  the  laughing  reply ;  "  indeed,  if  your  polite 
remark  had  been  uttered  by  anybody  but  my  own  good 
cousin,  it  would  probably  have  been  met  by  a  knock-down 
argument." 

"You  deserve  far  more  severe  reprehension,  Howard, 
than  I  am  either  able  or  willing  to  inflict  upon  you.  It 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  wantonly  trifling  with  the  affec- 
tions of  a  young  and  artless  girl  who  loves  you,  and  is  too 
guileless  to  conceal  her  attachment." 

"  If  such  is  your  opinion,  Tom,  I  shall  certainly  make  no 
attempt  to  change  it." 

"  Why  do  you  act  a  part  so  inconsistent  with  your  usual 
mode  of  thinking  ?" 

"  My  dear  fellow,  my  conduct  is  perfectly  consistent. 
I  have  a  certain  theory  about  women — a  certain  system  in 
my  manners  towards  them — and  to  that  system  I  mean  to 
adhere  rigidly,  even  in  despite  of  my  own  impulses." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Howard,  do  not  attempt  to  weave 
your  fragile,  fine-spun  theories  into  the  web  of  actual  life : 
you  have  been  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  and  a  projector  of 
schemes  all  your  life,  yet  what  have  you  gained  by  them 
all  T 

"I  have  gained,  as  Byron  says,  'a  deal  of  judgment., 
I  am  no  longer  a  passionate  boy,  looking  upon  woman  as 


88  THE  EXACTING  LOVER. 

a  being  of  a  higher  sphere,  whose  image  is  to  be  {  ensky'd. 
ensainted,  worshipped.'  I  have  been  in  too  many  love- 
affairs — have  knelt  too  often  before  an  idol  like  the  image 
seen  in  the  prophet's  vision,  whose  head  was  of  fine  gold, 
bnt  whose  feet  were  of  clay.  I  look  upon  woman  now 
as  only  a  gentle  and  loving  minister  to  man's  happiness : 
inferior  to  us  in  mind  and  in  vigor  of  character,  she  is  our 
superior  in  passion,  fortitude,  and  devoted  tenderness ;  the 
very  creature,  in  short,  of  whom  a  slave,  not  a  queen,  is 
made.  We  spoil  women  by  our  blind  homage,  and  unfit 
them  for  the  station  they  were  sent  to  occupy,  while  all  our 
efforts  to  elevate  them  to  the  position  which  our  youthful 
fancy  allots  them,  must  be  vain  and  useless." 

"  This  is  quite  a  new  idea,  is  it  not,  Howard  ?"  Less 
than  a  twelvemonth  ago  you  were  au  deses])oir  for  the 
brilliant  and  witty  Azuretta  Folatre,  and  then  you  main- 
tained a  Vontrance  the  superiority — mental,  moral,  and  per- 
sonal— of  the  feminine  creation." 

"  You  are  right,  Tom — but  Azuretta  cured  me  of  all  such 
foolish  fancies  :  she  had  been  so  spoiled  by  flattery,  that  she 
was  fit  for  nothing  but  to  occupy  the  throne  of  that  tyrannical 
old  Indian,  Begum,  we  were  reading  about  yesterday.  Her 
whims  and  caprices  led  me  to  reflect  upon  the  causes  which 
could  thus  transform  a  being  whom  nature  had  made  timid 
and  gentle,  into  such  a  proud,  exacting,  haughty,  domineer- 
ing creature ;  and  I  became  convinced  that  the  evil  might 
be  traced  to  man's  mistaken  homage.  Henceforth  I  mean 
to  treat,  women  as  we  do  children  ;  to  regard  them  as  beings 
capable  of  reason,  but  utterly  unfit  to  be  left  to  their  own 
guidance,  and  who,  in  place  of  being  deified,  require  to  be 
influenced." 

"And  pray  how  are  you  to  obtain  the  opportunity  of  in- 
fluencing them,  except  by  interesting  the  affections?" 

"Itisbythe  affections  only  that  they  are  to  be  ruled, 
Tom." 

"  Then  there  must  yet  be  a  season  of  homage,  Howard, 
for  women  are  not  to  be  won  unsought." 

"  That  is  true— but  neither  are  they  to  be  wooed  by  such 


THE   EXACTING  LOVER. 


89 


blind  and  humble  devotion  as  we  usually  pay.  Byron  knew 
the  female  heart  well,  and  I  am  convinced  his  rule  is  the 
true  one — '  Pique  them  and  soothe  by  tarns.'  " 

"  Ay,  Byron  knew  the  heart  of  woman  as  it  exists  in  the 
tainted  atmosphere  of  fashionable  life,  where  the  weeds  of 
passion  grow  the  more  rankly  because  nurtured  by  luxu- 
rious self-indulgence ;  but  you  would  not  surely  follow 
Byron's  rule  in  your  choice  of  a  wife  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  should.  What  would  a  man  gain  by  humbling 
himself  before  a  woman  during  courtship,  when  he  knew 
that  his  future  happiness  depended  upon  her  slavish  sub- 
mission to  him  after  marriage  ?  I  mean  to  marry  a  delicate, 
refined,  and  gentle  woman,  who  will  love  me  earnestly  and 
devotedly — to  whom  my  slightest  wish  will  be  law — who 
shall  have  no  wish  but  to  please  me — no  pleasure  unshared 
by  me — no  enjoyments  save  such  as  are  directly  derived 
from  my  will ;  a  woman,  in  short,  who  shall  be  all  that  a 
wife  was  first  designed — '  a  helpmate — subject  to  her  hus- 
band, and  patient  under  his  will.'" 

"  You  are  as  despotic  as  a  Turk,  Howard :  where  do 
you  expect  to  find  such  a  modern  Griselda  ?" 

"  I  have  found  her  already,  Tom." 

"  You  do  not,  certainly,  expect  to  train  Isabel  Forrester 
to  such  submission  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do — and,  what  is  more,  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall 
succeed.  I  love  her  better  than  I  ever  did  any  other  wo- 
man, but  I  mean  to  try  her  to  the  utmost,  before  I  place  my 
happiness  in  her  keeping." 

"  And  I  suppose  this  new  system  of  yours  will  account 
for  your  violent  flirtation  with  the  new  belle,  this  evening, 
while  Isabel  sat  neglected  in  a  corner." 

"  You  have  guessed  right :  I  met  Isabel  in  the  street,  this 
morning,  and  I  managed  to  insinuate  a  wish  that  she  would 
refrain  from  dancing  at  Mrs.  Anson's  party,  to-night.  It 
was  a  first  experiment  in  testing  my  power,  but  it  succeeded 
perfectly :  she  is  passionately  fond  of  dancing,  but  she  steadily 
refused  all  solicitations  on  the  subject." 

"  And  you  rewarded  her  attention  to  your  wishes  by  almost 
total  neglect." 


90 


THE  EXACTING  LOVER. 


"  That  was  part  of  my  policy  ;  she  doubtless  expected  to 
be  rewarded  for  her  self-denial  by  a  double  portion  of  my 
attention — and,  had  I  been  weak  enough  to  bestow  it,  her 
forbearance  would  have  been  no  sacrifice.  As  matters  now 
stand,  she  has  learned  that  I  have  power  to  afflict  her,  and 
that  is  a  great  point  gained." 

"  So  you  expect  to  win  her  by  wounding  her :  this  might 
do  in  buffalo-hunting,  but  will  scarcely  succeed  in  love- 
making." 

"  Don't  you  see  that  I  excite  a  new  interest  by  awaken- 
ing her  apprehensions  ?  She  probably  felt  sure  of  my  pre- 
ference for  her  until  this  evening,  and  the  doubts  which 
my  conduct  has  excited,  will  make  her  think  of  me  until 
we  meet  again.  A  woman  is  easily  managed  by  one  who 
is  allowed  to  engross  her  thoughts." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  give  you  my  candid  opinion  of 
your  scheme,  Howard  V 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  I  think  it  a  most  selfish,  cold-hearted,  rascally  method 
of  trifling  with  a  woman's  feelings." 

"  You  are  complimentary ;  but  ?i'  imjwrte ;  you  are  in 
the  toils  of  a  pretty  girl  who  tyrannizes  over  you  without 
mercy,  Tom,  and  I  cannot  hope  to  bring  you  to  my  way 
of  thinking  at  present." 

"  Nor  in  future,  I  trust,  Howard  :  it  seems  to  me  unprin- 
cipled." 

"  You  are  wrong,  Tom.  I  mean  to  marry  Isabel  as  soon 
as  she  is  perfectly  broken  in." 

"  And  suppose  she  proves  intractable  ?"  / 

"  That  will  be  a  sufficient  proof  of  want  of  affection  on 
her  part,  and  of  course  I  shall  be  the  only  sufferer." 

"  Well,  you  certainly  have  a  cool  and  comfortable  way 
of  discussing  affairs  of  the  heart ;  but  I  do  not  envy  you 
the  power.  When  the  feelings  are  seared  as  yours  seem  to 
be,  they  must  have  suffered  frequent  scathing,  and  I  would 
not  go  through  such  an  ordeal  of  fire,  even  to  obtain  the 
prize  of  insensibility." 

With  these  words  the  young  men  parted — one  to  dream 


THE   EXACTING  LOVER. 


91 


of  his  beautiful  but  coquetish  lady-love,  the  other  to  specu- 
late upon  the  effect  which  his  unkindness  had  produced 
upon  a  gentle  and  loving  heart. 

Wilmarth  was  one  of  those  "  men  about  town."  who  are 
always  to  be  met  in  gay  society.  He  began  his  career  by 
falling  in  love  at  twelve  years  of  age.  with  his  cousin  of 
twenty ;  and  from  that  time  until  he  had  counted  his  thir- 
tieth summer,  he  had  been  continually  under  the  influence 
of  some  fever  dream.  A  bright  smile,  a  soft  eye,  a  sweet 
voice,  a  delicate  form,  a  pretty  foot,  were  each  in  turn  suffi- 
cient to  bewitch  him  for  the  time ;  and  the  ease  with  which 
he  became  enchanted  and  disenchanted,  seemed  to  him  less 
the  effect  of  his  own  fickleness  than  the  result  of  his  over- 
estimation  of  the  power  of  woman's  spells.  His  handsome 
person  and  elegant  manners  made  him  always  welcome 
in  the  circles  of  fashion,  while  his  lucrative  profession  and 
rising  reputation  gave  him  interest  in  the  eyes  of  prudent 
parents.  He  had  met  with  so  much  success  in  society,  that 
he  had  learned  to  think  too  highly  of  himself,  as  well  as 
too  humbly  of  his  neighbors;  and  his  opinion  of  women 
had  become  more  degrading  and  unjust  in  proportion  as  he 
had  received  new  proofs  of  their  refined  susceptibility  of 
feeling.  He  had  been  loved  fondly  and  truly  by  more  than 
one  noble-hearted  woman  ;  but  these  things  occurred  at  a 
period  when  he  could  not  summon  courage  enough  to  resign 
his  brilliant  position  for  the  comparatively  uninteresting 
character  of  the  married  man,  and  he  had'  coolly  extricated 
himself  from  such  dilemmas  without  difficulty.  He  had 
no  faith  in  the  stability  of  woman's  feelings,  and  could  not 
be  made  to  believe  that  the  agreeable  flirtations  which  were 
so  pleasant  while  they  lasted,  and  occasioned  so  little  pain 
to  him  in  their  termination,  were  productive  of  more  serious 
srief  to  the  belle  than  to  the  beau.    But  he  had  now  be- 

o 

come  wearied  of  this  aimless  and  roving  life.  He  wanted 
some  one  to  minister  to  his  whims,  to  study  his  comforts, 
to  wait  upon  him  more  faithfully  than  a  hireling,  and  ho 
therefore  decided  to  marry. 

Isabel  Forrester  was  no  heroine  of  romance — no  creature 


92 


THE   EXACTING  LOVER. 


of  improbable  perfection.  She  was  a  meek,  quiet,  tender 
girl,  with  faculties  yet  to  be  developed  by  circumstances, 
and  warm  affections,  which,  from  childhood,  had  been 
lavished  upon  every  thing  and  every  body  around  her. 
She  was  perfectly  unsophisticated  in  feeling,  and.  the  idea 
of  saying  or  doing  anything  merely  for  effect,  never  entered 
her  mind.  Wilmarth's  experience  in  the  world  had  made 
him  master  of  the  arts  of  pleasing,  and  it  is  not  surprising 
that  he  should  soon  have  excited  an  interest  in  the  bosom 
of  the  artless  girl.  She  did  not  begin  to  speculate  upon  his 
motives  for  distinguishing  her  by  his  attentions ;  no  true- 
hearted  woman  ever  thinks  of  such  things  till  they  are  sug- 
gested by  some  officious  friend  ;  nor  did  she  at  once  calcu- 
late her  chances  of  matrimony  :  she  w7as  influenced  too  much 
by  the  impulses  of  feeling  to  be  so  fully  awake  to  selfish 
interest.  She  liked  Wilmarth,  and  was  charmed  with  his 
adroit  adaptation  of  himself  to  suit  her  tastes.  She  loved 
poetry — and  he  was  an  admirable  reciter ;  she  was  a  fine 
musician — and  he  had  a  decided  taste  if  not  a  talent  for 
u  sweet  sounds  ;"  she  was  fond  of  reading — and  his  choice 
of  books  was  excellent :  in  short,  he  left  no  means  untried 
to  convince  her  of  the  congeniality  which  existed  between 
their  minds.  As  soon  as  he  was  assured  of  her  preference 
for  him,  (and  a  man  of  the  world  soon  discovers  this)  he 
commenced  his  system  of  training.  He  did  not  at  once  pre- 
sume to  censure  her,  for  this  might  have  aroused  her  pride ; 
but  he  insinuated  his  wishes — and  Isabel,  with  the  devoted- 
ness  of  a  true  woman,  endeavored  to  mould  herself  to  his 
will.  He  at  first  undertook  to  correct  her  taste  in  books — 
and  to  this  Isabel  submitted  with  the  meek  humility  of  one 
who  was  conscious  of  her  mental  inferiority.  He  then  scru- 
tinized, with  a  critical  eye,  her  style  of  dress,  and  lauded 
a  severe  simplicity  of  attire,  until  Isabel  banished  gay  colors, 
ribbons,  and  jewels,  and  assumed  a  garb  of  almost  Quaker 
neatness.  Her  rich  curls  were  braided  back  from  her  brow, 
her  dresses  were  all  selected  from  those  grave,  sombre  tints 
always  so  unbecoming  in  fresh  youth  ;  and  an  embroidered 
handkerchief,  which  she  ventured  to  exhibit,  after  having 


THE    EXACTING  LOVER. 


93 


heard  a  tirade  against  such  follies  from  the  lips  of  the  sage 
Mr.  Wilmarth,  cost  her  a  night  of  sleeplessness  and  tears. 

So  far,  Wilmarth's  scheme  had  succeeded  perfectly,  but 
he  determined  to  try  still  more  severe  experiments.  His 
conduct  on  the  evening  before  alluded  to,  was  his  first 
attempt,  and  what  it  cost  Isabel  may  be  best  imagined  by 
those  who  can  remember  the  first  awakening  of  distrust  in 
the  youthful  and  confiding  heart.  That  Wilmarth  loved 
her,  she  could  not  doubt,  for  his  looks,  his  manners,  all  dis- 
closed his  attachment;  but  the  words  which  bind  heart  to 
heart  in  that  contract  which  the  world  holds  to  be  only  less 
irrefragable  than  the  church's  bond,  had  never  yet  been 
uttered.  They  were  not  affianced  lovers,  and  therefore 
Isabel,  though  feeling  herself  wronged  and  outraged,  knew 
she  had  no  right  to  complain.  That  night,  Isabel's  head 
pressed  a  sleepless  pillow,  but  with  the  morning  came  a 
feeling  of  pride  and  a  sense  of  shame  such  as  she  had  never 
before  experienced.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had 
something  to  conceal,  (a)as !  it  is  too  often  the  first  grief 
which  teaches  the  first  deception,)  and  with  a  pale  cheek 
but  calm  brow,  she  took  her  accustomed  seat  in  the  drawing- 
room.  At  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  Wilmarth  made  his 
appearance.  He  was  prepared  for  sadness  and  reproaches, 
but  Isabel's  cold,  proud  demeanor,  made  him  fear  he  had 
gone  too  far.  He  had  no  wish  to  lose  his  influence  over 
the  lady,  for  Isabel  was  an  heiress,  and  in  his  anxiety  to 
regain  his  power,  he  uttered  those  expressions  of  tenderness 
and  love,  which,  once  spoken,  are  never  to  be  recalled. 
They  bad  met  with  coldness  and  distrust,  but  they  parted 
as  betrothed  lovers — and  thus,  in  despite  of  his  themes  and 
his  systems.  Wilmarth  found  himself,  after  all,  the  toy  of 
natural  impulses. 

Notwithstanding  his  pleasure  at  having  secured  the  lady 
and  her  fortune.  Wilmarth  was  seriously  alarmed  when  he 
reflected  upon  the  consequences  of  his  precipitation.  He 
fancied  that  Isabel  would  now  assert  her  sovereignty,  and 
he  knew  that  the  opinion  of  society  would  uphold  her  in 
claiming  her  right  to  his  attentions.    The  situation  of  an 


94  THE   EXACTING  LOVER. 

engaged  lover,  compelled  to  dangle  for  ever  at  the  side  of 
his  lady-love — about  as  useful  to  her  as  her  reticule,  yet  as 
much  in  demand  as  if  really  essential  to  her  hourly  exist- 
ence— had  always  struck  him  as  supremely  ridiculous  : 
and  even  while  secretly  rejoicing  in  his  success,  he  deter- 
mined to  guard  against  a,ny  advantage  which  Isabel  might 
hope  from  his  weakness.  His  first  step,  therefore,  was  to 
enjoin  the  strictest  secresy  concerning  their  engagement ; 
and  when  Isabel  cheerfully  acceded  to  a  wish  which  still 
seemed  to  her  very  unaccountable,  he  resumed  his  former 
habits  of  dictation  and  direction. 

A  woman  will  bear  much  from  one  she  loves,  so  long  as 
no  doubt  exists  of  his  affection — so  long  as  she  is  rewarded 
by  a  proper  appreciation  of  her  tenderness.  Isabel  some- 
times felt  a  sort  of  meek  wonder  at  Wilmarth's  exactions ; 
she  sometimes  caught  herself  wishing  that  he  was  less  diffi- 
cult to  please,  and  less  fastidious  in  his  ideas  of  womanly 
duties  and  womanly  impulses,  but  the  thought  of  paying  no 
heed  to  his  suggestions  and  counsels,  never  occurred  to  her 
as  possible.  She  considered  it  her  duty  to  begin  at  once  the 
task  of  assimilation — to  adapt  herself  immediately  to  the 
tastes  of  him  who  was  to  be  her  future  companion  through 
life,  but  she  was  scarcely  prepared  for  so  much  self-denial 
as  she  was  now  called  to  practise.  In  the  course  of  a  very 
short  time  she  found  herself  completely  shut  out  from  society, 
restricted  to  the  coldest  and  most  ceremonious  intercourse 
with  former  friends — debarred  the  privilege  of  walking  or 
talking  with  whom  she  pleased — forbidden  to  mingle  in  the 
dance — her  modes  of  thinking  and  acting  marked  out  for 
her — and  her  very  impulses  restrained  or  directed  by  the 
will  of  her  lover.  Yet  Isabel  bore  with  all  his  caprices, 
for  she  truly  loved  him,  and  considered  his  whims  rather  as 
proofs  of  the  jealous  tenderness  of  his  nature,  or  at  the  worst, 
but  as  slight  infirmities  of  temper.  There  was  no  sacrifice, 
however  great,  which  she  would  not  willingly  have  made 
for  him ;  but  it  can  scarcely  be  wondered  at  if  the  thousand 
petty  exactions  which  were  constantly  marring  the  quiet  of 
her  life,  should,  in  the  course  of  time,  weary  her,  and  per- 


THE  EXACTING  L0\>  ER. 


95 


haps  suggest  a  doubt  of  the  high-minded ne  fs  of  one  wliose 
thoughts  dwelt  so  much  in  trifling  details. 

Isabel  had  borne  for  months  with  Wilmarth's  freaks  of 
coldness,  his  capricious  devotion  to  others,  his  occasional 
outbreaks  of  anger,  and  his  unreasonable  control  over  her 
actions.  But  at  length,  circumstances  too  trivial  to  be 
recorded,  yet,  taken  in  connection,  forming  a  chain  of  con- 
tinued evidence  not  to  be  disputed,  led  her  to  suspect  that 
his  apparent  caprice  was  the  result  of  a  systematic  plan. 
At  first  the  thought  was  too  painful  to  be  indulged  for  a 
moment ;  but  distrust  once  admitted,  was  not  to  be  repelled, 
and  in  sadness  of  spirit  Isabel  was  compelled  to  admit  the 
belief  of  her  lover's  selfishness.  A  conversation  which  she 
accidentally  overheard  between  Wilmarth  and  his  cousin, 
removed  all  doubts  on  the  subject.  She  heard  Wilmarth 
congratulate  himself  on  his  success  in  training  her;  she 
heard  herself  spoken  of  as  the  tame,  subdued,  devoted  crea- 
ture, who  had  nearly  attained  the  requisite  point  of  perfec- 
tion— and  from  that  moment  resentment  took  the  place  of 
her  relying  love.  She  felt  herself  outraged  and  insulted ; 
her  affections  had  been  used  as  fetters  to  bind  her  to  a  vic- 
tor's car  of  triumph  ;  she  had  been  made  the  sport  of  man's 
selfishness  ;  her  heart  had  been  as  a  sweet  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  a  cunning  player,  and  every  stop  had  been  sound- 
ed, not  in  response  to  the  voice  of  love,  but  in  obedience  to 
the  will  of  a  cold  experimentalist.  Isabel  was  a  proud  as 
well  as  a  true-hearted  woman.  She  would  not  reproach 
Wilmarth — she  would  not  even  ask  an  explanation— but 
with  that  quickness  of  feeling  which  is  a  woman's  gravest 
error  as  well  as  her  sweetest  charm,  she  concluded  that  he 
had  never  loved  her.  Once  convinced  of  his  object  in  guard- 
ing her  with  such  jealous  care — once  assured  that  it  was 
less  the  tender  reserve  of  affection  than  the  selfish  wish  to 
rule,  and  Isabel  became  again  her  own  mistress.  The  sub- 
mission which  love  might  have  exacted  through  a  long 
life  of  cheerful  self-denial,  was  refused  to  cold,  calculating 
tyranny. 

Without  one  word  of  explanation  or  deprecation,  Isabel 


96 


THE  EXACTING  LOVER. 


returned  to  society  and  resumed  her  former  habits.  Her 
voice  was  again  heard  in  the  cheerful  song — her  step  was 
once  more  lightest  in  the  dance — her  beauty  once  more 
dazzled  and  delighted  a  circle  of  admiring  worshippers.  To 
Wilmarth's  fierce  and  angry  remonstrances  she  turned  a 
deaf  ear — to  his  earnest  professions  she  replied  with  a  smile 
of  incredulity — to  his  real  anxiety  of  mind  she  gave  not  the 
slightest  credence.  Whatever  regrets  she  felt,  were  hidden 
beneath  a  calm  demeanor,  or  dissipated  in  the  gay  scenes  of 
busy  life ;  and  Isabel  proved,  in  progress  of  time,  as  every 
proud  woman  must  do  when  convinced  that  her  heart  has 
been  given  to  one  unworthy  of  its  treasures,  that  she  grieved 
less  for  the  lover  than  for  the  love,  which  had  passed  away 
from  her  as  the  dew  from  the  early  rose.  The  youth  of  her 
heart  was  gone ;  she  had  learned  her  first  lesson  in  disap- 
pointment, and  for  her  the  romance  of  life  was  past  for  ever. 

Wilmarth  knew  not  how  much  he  really  loved  Isabel 
until  she  was  lost  to  him.  In  vain  he  endeavored  to  regain 
his  influence  over  her — in  vain  he  sought  to  convince  her 
how  entirely  his  happiness  depended  on  her. 

"You  deceive  yourself,  Mr.  Wilmarth,"  was  her  cold 
reply :  "  I  am  not  the  person  calculated  to  make  you  happy. 
Some  Circassian  beauty,  who  would  feel  honored  in  being 
permitted  to  be  your  slave,  would  better  suit  one  who  uses 
affection  but  as  a  coil  to  ensnare  the  free  will  Had  you 
given  me  one  honest  feeling — had  you  yielded  to  one  true 
impulse  while  I  was  pouring  out  the  fulness  of  my  heart 
at  your  feet — had  you  been  any  other  than  the  cold,  calcu- 
lating man  of  the  world,  which  your  conduct  has  since 
shown  you,  I  might  have  forgiven  you ;  but  now,  I  would 
rather  wed  with  the  merest  clod  that  ever  wore  human  form, 
than  give  my  hand  to  one  who  could  offer  the  spurious  coin 
of  false  affection  in  exchange  for  woman's  true  and  loving 
heart." 

Wilmarth  thought  long  on  Isabel's  last  words,  and  he 
remembered  them  with  deeper  bitterness  when  he  afterwards 
beheld  her  the  honored  and  apparently  happy  wife  of  one 
who  had  L  ng  loved  her  with  a  more  unselfish  and  confiding 


HEAVEN.  97 

tenderness.  Years  have  passed  since  then,  but  he  has  rjevei 
yet  found  the  creature  worthy  or  willing  to  become  his  wife. 
He  is  now  fast  falling  into  "the  sear  and  yellow  leaf" — the 
weight  of  half  a  century  lies  heavy  upon  him,  and  all  the 
skill  of  the  perruquier,  the  dentist,  and  the  tailor,  cannot 
conceal  the  fact  that — 

"  Time  may  fly  with  the  wings  of  the  hawk,  but  his  steps 
Are  marked  by  the  feet  of  the  crow." 

A  lonely  and  disappointed  bachelor — leading  an  aimless 
and  joyless  life— tolerated  in  circles  where  he  was  wont  to 
be  courted — banished  to  fireside  corners  with  the  comely 
matrons  who  were  his  cotemporaries,  while  those  who  were 
unborn  in  the  days  of  his  early  triumphs,  now  elbow  him 
from  the  course — he  has  learned  to  repent  his  vain  attempt 
to  manage  a  tender  and  truthful  woman  by  other  means 
than  the  rule  of  love. 


HEAVEN. 


BY  C.  D.  STUART. 


As  distant  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
When  friends  go  thence,  draw  nigh, 

So  Heaven,  when  friends  have  thither  gone, 
Draws  nearer  from  the  sky. 

And  as  those  lands  the  dearer  grow 

When  friends  are  long  away, 
So  Heaven  itself,  through  loved  ones  deau, 

Grows  dearer  day  by  day. 

Heaven  is  not  far  from  those  who  seo 

With  the  pure  spirit's  sight  ; 
But  near,  and  in  the  very  hearts, 

Of  those  who  see  aright. 


HE    CAME    TOO  LATE! 


He  came  too  late ! — Neglect  had  tried 

Her  constancy  too  long ; 
Her  love  had  yielded  to  her  pride, 

And  the  deep  sense  of  wrong. 
She  scorned  the  offering  of  a  heart 

Which  lingered  on  its  way, 
Till  it  could  no  delight  impart, 

Nor  spread  one  cheering  ray. 

He  came  too  late  ! — At  once  he  felt 
That  all  his  power  was  o'er ! 

Indifference  in  her  calm  smile  dwelt — 
She  thought  of  him  no  more ! 

Anger  and  grief  had  passed  away — 
Her  heart  and  thoughts  were  free; 

She  met  him,  and  her  words  were  gay- 
No  spell  had  memory. 

He  came  too  late ! — The  subtle  chords 

Of  love  were  all  unbound — 
Not  by  offence  of  spoken  words, 

But  by  the  slights  that  wound  ! 
She  knew  that  life  held  nothing  now 

That  could  the  past  repay, 
Yet  she  disdained  his  tardy  vow, 

And  coldly  turned  away ! 

He  came  too  late ! — Her  countless  dreams 

Of  hope  had  long  since  flown ; 
No  charms  dwelt  in  his  chosen  themes, 

Nor  in  his  whispered  tone. 
And  when,  with  word  and  smile,  he  tried 

Affection  still  to  prove, 
She  nerved  her  heart  with  woman's  pride, 

And  spurned  his  fickle  love ! 


• 


ERIS:    A    SPIRIT  RECORD. 


BY  WALTER  WHITMAN. 


Wno  says  that  there  are  not  angels  or  invisible  spiiits 
watching  around  us?  The  teeming  regions  of  the  air 
swarm  with  bodiless  ghosts — bodiless  to  human  sight,  be- 
cause of  their  exceeding  and  too  dazzling  beauty ! 

And  there  is  one,  childlike,  with  helpless  and  unsteady 
movements,  but  a  countenance  of  immortal  bloom,  whose 
long-lashed  eyes  droop  downward.  Thejtame  of  the  shape 
is  Dai.  When  he  comes  near,  the  angels  are  silent,  and 
gaze  upon  him  with  pity  and  affection.  And  the  fair  eyes 
of  the  shape  roll,  but  fix  upon  no  object :  while  his  lips 
move,  but  a  plaintive  tone  only  is  heard — the  speaking  of 
a  single  name.  Wandering  in  the  confines  of  earth,  or  rest- 
lessly amid  the  streets  of  the  beautiful  land,  goes  Dai,  earn- 
estly calling  on  one  he  loves. 

Wherefore  is  there  no  response? 

Soft  as  the  feathery  leaf  of  the  frailest  flower — pure  as 
the  heart  of  flame — of  a  beauty  so  lustrous  that  the  sons  of 
Heaven  themselves  might  well  be  drunken  to  gaze  thereon — 
with  fleecy  robes  that  but  half  apparel  a  maddening  white- 
ness and  grace — dwells  Eris  among  the  creatures  beautiful, 
a  chosen  and  cherished  one.  And  Eris  is  the  name  called 
by  the  wandering  angel — while  no  answer  comes,  and  the 
loved  flies  swiftly  away,  with  a  look  of  sadness  and  dis- 
pleasure. 

It  had  been  years  before  that  a  maid  and  her  betrothed 
lived  in  one  of  the  pleasant  places  of  earth.  Their  hearts 
clung  to  each  other  with  fondness  of  young  life  and  all  its 
dreamy  passion.  Each  was  simple  and  innocent.  Mor- 
tality might  not  know  a  thing  better  than  their  love,  or  more 
sunny  than  their  happiness. 


100 


ERIS  :   A   SPIRIT  RECORD. 


In  the  method  of  the  rule  of  fate,  it  was  ordered  that  the 
maid  should  sicken,  and  be  drawn  nigh  to  the  gates  of 
death— nigh,  but  not  through  them.  Now,  to  the  young 
who  love  purely,  High  Power  commissions  to  each  a  gentle 
guardian,  who  hovers  around  unseen  day  and  night.  The 
office  of  this  spirit  is  to  keep  a  sleepless  watch,  and  fill  the 
heart  of  his  charge  with  strange  and  mysterious  and  lovely 
thoughts.  Over  the  maid  was  placed  Dai,  and  through 
her  illness  the  unknown  presence  of  the  youth  hung  near 
continually. 

fcTo  the  immortal,  days,  years,  and  centuries  are  the 

same. 

Erewhile,  a  cloud  was  seen  in  Heaven.  The  delicate 
ones  bent  their  necks,  and  shook  as  if  a  chill  blast  had  swept 
by — and  white  robes  were  drawn  around  shivering  and  ter- 
rified forms. 

An  archangel  with  veiled  cheeks  cleaved  the  air.  Silence 
spread  through  the  hosts  of  the  passed  away,  who  gazed 
in  wonder  and  fear.  And  as  they  gazed,  they  saw  a  new 
companion  of  wondrous  loveliness  among  them — a  strange 
and  timid  creature,  who,  were  it  not  that  pain  must  never 
enter  those  borders  with  innocence,  would  have  been  called 
unhappy.  The  angels  gathered  around  the  late  comer 
with  caresses  and  kisses,  and  they  smiled  pleasantly  with 
joy  in  each  other's  eyes. 

Then  the  archangel's  voice  was  heard — and  they  who 
heard  it.  knew  that  One  still  mightier  spake  his  will  there- 
in : — 

"  The  child  Dai !"  said  he. 

A  far  reply  sounded  out  in  tones  of  trembling  and  appre- 
hension— 
';  I  am  here  !" 

And  the  youth  came  forth  from  the  distant  confines  whi- 
ther he  had  been  in  solitude.  The  placid  look  of  peace  no 
more  illumined  his  brow  with  silver  light,  and  his  unearthly 
beauty  was  as  a  choice  statue  enveloped  in  mist  and  smoke. 

"  Oh,  wTeak  and  wicked  spirit !"  said  the  archangel,  "  thou 
hast  been  false  to  thy  mission  and  thy  Master !" 


ERIS  I   A  SPIRIT  RECORD. 


10] 


The  quivering  limbs  of  Dai  felt  weak  and  cold.  He 
would  have  made  an  answer  in  agony — but  at  that  moment 
he  lifted  his  eyes  and  beheld  the  countenance  of  Eris,  the 
late  comer. 

Love  is  potent,  even  in  Heaven  !  And  subtle  passion 
creeps  into  the  hearts  of  the  sons  of  beauty,  who  feel  the 
delicious  impulse,  and  know  that  there  is  a  soft  sadness 
sweeter  than  aught  in  the  round  of  their  pleasure  eternal. 

When  the  youth  saw  Eris,  he  sprang  forward  with  light- 
ning swiftness  to  her  side.  But  the  late  comer  turned  away 
with  aversion.  The  band  of  good-will  might  not  be  be- 
tween them,  because  of  wrongs  done,  and  the  planting  of 
despair  in  two  happy  human  hearts. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  myriads  of  interlinked  spirits 
that  range  step  by  step  from  the  throne  of  the  Uppermost, 
(as  the  power  of  that  light  and  presence  which  is  unbear- 
able even  to  the  deathless,  must  be  tempered  for  the  sight 
of  any  created  thing,  however  lofty,)  were  conscious  of  a 
motion  of  the  mind  of  God.  Quicker  than  electric  thought 
the  command  was  accomplished  !  The  disobedient  angel 
felt  himself  enveloped  in  a  sudden  cloud,  impenetrably  dark. 
The  face  of  Eris  gladdened  and  maddened  him  no  more. 
He  turned  himself  to  and  fro,  and  stretched  out  his  arms — 
but  though  he  knew  the  nearness  of  his  companions,  the 
light  of  Heaven,  and  of  the  eyes  of  Eris,  was  strangely  seal- 
ed to  him.    The  youth  was  blind  forever ! 

So  a  wandering  angel  sweeps  through  space  with  restless 
and  unsteady  movements — and  the  sound  heard  from  his 
lips  is  the  calling  of  a  single  name.  Bat  the  loved  flies 
swiftly  away  in  sadness,  and  heeds  him  not.  Onward  and 
onward  speeds  the  angel,  amid  scenes  of  ineffable  splendor, 
though  to  his  sight  the  splendor  is  darkness.  But  there  is 
one  scene  that  rests  before  him  alway.  It  is  of  a  low  brown 
dwelling  amo|g  the  children  of  men  ;  and  in  an  inner  room 
a  couch,  whereon  lies  a  young  maid,  whose  cheeks  rival 
the  frailness  and  paleness  of  foam.  Near  by  is  a  youth  ; 
and  the  filmy  eyes  of  the  girl  are  bent  upon  him  in  fond- 
ness.   What  dim  shape  hovers  overhead?    He  is  invisible 


102 


ERIS  :  A  SPIRIT  RECORD, 


to  mortals ;  but,  oh  !  well  may  the  blind  spirit,  by  the  token 
of  throbs  of  guilty  and  fiery  love  beating  through  him,  know 
that  hovering  form !  Thrust  forward  by  such  fiery  love, 
the  shape  dared  transcend  his  duty.  Again  the  youth 
looked  upon  the  couch,  and  beheld  a  lifeless  corpse. 

This  is  the  picture  upon  the  vision  of  Dai.  His  brethren 
of  the  bands  of  light,  as  they  meet  him  in  his  jonrneyings, 
pause  awhile  for  pity  ;  yet  never  do  the  pangs  of  their  sym- 
pathy (the  only  pangs  known  to  those  sinless  creatures, 
or  arms  thrown  softly  around  him,  or  kisses  on  his  brow,) 
efface  the  pale  lineaments  of  the  sick  girl — the  dead. 

In  the  portals  of  Heaven  stands  Eris,  oft  peering  into  the 
outer  distance.  Nor  of  the  millions  of  winged  messenger? 
that  hourly  come  and  go,  does  one  enter  there  whose  features 
are  not  earnestly  scanned  by  the  watcher.  And  the  fond 
joy  resides  in  her  soul,  that  the  time  is  nigh  at  hand  ;  for 
a  thread  yet  binds  the  angel  down  to  the  old  abode,  and, 
until  the  breaking  of  that  bond,  Eris  keeps  vigil  in  the  por- 
tals of  Heaven. 

The  limit  of  the  watch  comes  soon.  On  earth,  a  toil- 
worn  man  has  returned  from  distant  travel,  and  lays  him 
down,  weary  and  faint  at  heart,  on  a  floor  amid  the  ruins 
of  that  low  brown  dwelling.  The  slight  echo  is  heard  of 
moans  coming  from  the  breast  of  one  who  yearns  to  die.  Life, 
and  rosy  light,  and  the  pleasant  things  of  nature,  and  the 
voice  and  sight  of  his  fellows,  and  the  glory  of  thought — 
the  sun,  the  flowers,  the  glittering  stars,  the  soft  breeze — 
have  no  joy  for  him.  And  the  coffin  and  the  cold  earth 
have  no  horror ;  they  are  a  path  to  the  unforgotten. 

Thus  the  tale  is  told  in  Heaven,  how  the  pure  love  of 
two  human  beings  is  a  sacred  thing,  which  the  immortal 
themselves  must  not  dare  to  cross.  In  pity  to  the  disobe- 
dient angel  he  is  blind,  that  he  may  not  gaze  ceaselessly 
on  one  who  returns  his  love  with  displeasing.  And  haply 
Dai  is  the  spirit  of  the  destiny  of  those  whose  selfishness 
would  seek  to  mar  the  peace  of  gentle  hearts,  by  their  own 
unreturned  and  unhallowed  passion. 


SLANDER 


How  many  there  are,  who  can  say  with  almost  a  broken 
heart,  "Surely  the  tongue  is  an  unruly  evil,  full  of  deadly 
poison  !"  How  many  a  ruined  character  can  exclaim,  with 
a  bleeding  heart,  "Behold,  how  great  a  matter  a  little  fire 
kindleth  !"  Surely,  it  has  crushed  a  thousand  hopes,  and 
sent  to  the  grave  of  peaceful  rest  many  a  fair  reputation  ! 

Slander  is  a  crying  evil.  Few  there  are  who  possess  that 
fiendish  and  vampire-like  disposition  to  take  that  from  a  per- 
son which  is  near  to  him  as  the  blood  of  his  own  heart.  But, 
there  are  some  who  can  calmly  and  sedately  sap  the  fair 
fame,  and  pluck  the  laurel  of  reputation  from  their  brow, 
and  cause  them  to  wither  as  the  rose. 

Behold,  for  a  moment,  the  Slanderer  !  He  comes  forth 
with  pleasantness  and  gaiety.  He  is  unassuming  in  his 
deportment,  and  the  robe  of  peace  seems  to  be  his  mantle. 
He  hails  you  with  joy  and  congratulation.  He  begins  with 
vague,  insignificant  surmise,  and  small  broken  hints,  or 
some  small  detached  expression  of  some  child-like  story, 
believing  every  utterable  word,  and  then  marshals  or  puts 
them  together  to  his  own  liking,  and  at  last  he  puts  them 
afloat  in  the  public  ear. 

It  then  goes  on  from  one  tongue  to  another,  concealed  like 
a  tiger  in  a  jungle,  creeping  for  his  prey  ;  and  the  public 
mind  being  such,  that  one  whisper  is  enough  to  shadow  and 
becloud  the  brightest  and  fairest  character  that  has  acquired 
years  to  establish.  It  is  like  breath  upon  a  looking-glass. 
Thus  the  whisper  or  hint  goes  on  from  one  to  another,  like 
the  secret  leaven,  till  at  last  it  breaks  out,  all  at  once,  in 
words.  Then  comes  the  tug  of  war.  Then,  there  comes 
a  mighty  tornado,  sweeping  and  laying  in  ruins  the  fail 
hopes  of  future  anticipations.  It  falls  like  the  astonished 
shock  of  a  thunderbolt  from  a  clear  sky. 


104 


BE  KIND. 


In  such  cases,  could  the  person  slandered,  but  trace  it,  he 
would  find  that  it  was  but  a  mere  dint — a  dim  or  minute 
germ — having  grown  out  of  mere  nothing,  and  by  using, 
and  transition  from  one  to  another,  into  a  notorious  and 
odious  calumny. 

Such  is  slander  in  its  protean  form.  The  fair,  unblemish- 
ed character,  lies  bleeding  at  every  pore.  What  a  fine  and 
vital  cord  do  you  snap,  when  you  snap  the  most  tiny  thread 
of  character .'  Deplorable  is  the  man  when  character  is 
gone  !  Truly  it  is  an  unruly  evil,  full  of  deadly  poison.  It 
infuses  the  whole  atmosphere  of  mind  with  its  poisonous 
effluvia  and  death. 

Surely,  indeed,  no  man  can  tame  the  tongue  of  others, 
or  can  stop  the  onward  move  of  the  Slanderer's  tongue.  He 
must  stand  as  the  bleeding  object  of  a  thousand  arrows,  with- 
out a  possibility  to  shield  himself.  He  goes  on  and  down 
to  the  grave,  or  couches  through  life  with  life's  very  essence 
turned  to  bitterness  and  all  his  hopes  withered.  Oh  !  let  us 
beware  of  giving  birth  to  slander !  A  wound  made  by  the 
arrow  of  slander  can  never  be  healed.  Let  us  beware  of  a 
slanderous  tongue — it  is  full  of  deadly  poison. 



BE  KIND. 


Let  us  be  kind — for  who  has  not 
Been  more  or  less  imperfect  here? — 

Who  fain  would  have  his  sins  forgot, 
Or  blotted  out  by  Pity's  tear* 

Forgiveness  is  a  gentle  word — 
Upon  whose  tone  how  many  live! 

And  since  we  all  have  sinned  or  erred, 
Why  not  each  other's  faults  forgive? 

Oh  !  let  our  hearts  be  kindly  cast, 
Until  we  cross  the  downward  tide — 

Like  barques  that  feel  a  common  blast, 
And  haste  to  anchor  side  by  side. 


THE    EXACTING  LOVER. 


89 


blind  and  humble  devotion  as  we  usually  pay.  Byron  knew 
the  female  heart  well,  and  I  am  convinced  his  rule  is  the 
true  one — 1  Pique  them  and  soothe  by  turns.'  " 

"  Ay,  Byron  knew  the  heart  of  woman  as  it  exists  in  the 
tainted  atmosphere  of  fashionable  life,  where  the  weeds  of 
passion  grow  the  more  rankly  because  nurtured  by  luxu- 
rious self-indulgence ;  but  you  would  not  surely  follow 
Byron's  rule  in  your  choice  of  a  wife  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  should.  What  would  a  man  gain  by  humbling 
himself  before  a  woman  during  courtship,  when  he  knew 
that  his  future  happiness  depended  upon  her  slavish  sub- 
mission to  him  after  marriage  ?  I  mean  to  marry  a  delicate, 
refined,  and  gentle  woman,  who  will  love  me  earnestly  and 
devotedly — to  whom  my  slightest  wish  will  be  law — who 
shall  have  no  wish  but  to  please  me — no  pleasure  unshared 
by  me — no  enjoyments  save  such  as  are  directly  derived 
from  my  will ;  a  woman,  in  short,  who  shall  be  all  that  a 
wife  was  first  designed — c  a  helpmate — subject  to  her  hus- 
band, and  patient  under  his  will.' " 

"  You  are  as  despotic  as  a  Turk,  Howard :  where  do 
you  expect  to  find  such  a  modern  Griselda  ?" 

"  I  have  found  her  already,  Tom." 

"  You  do  not,  certainly,  expect  to  train  Isabel  Forrester 
to  such  submission  V 

"  Indeed  I  do — and,  what  is  more,  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall 
succeed.  I  love  her  better  than  I  ever  did  any  other  wo- 
man, but  I  mean  to  try  her  to  the  utmost,  before  I  place  my 
happiness  in  her  keeping." 

"  And  I  suppose  this  new  system  of  yours  will  account 
for  your  violent  flirtation  with  the  new  belle,  this  evening, 
while  Isabel  sat  neglected  in  a  corner." 

"  You  have  guessed  right :  I  met  Isabel  in  the  street,  this 
morning,  and  I  managed  to  insinuate  a  wish  that  she  would 
refrain  from  dancing  at  Mrs.  Anson's  party,  to-night.  It 
was  a  first  experiment  in  testing  my  power,  but  it  succeeded 
perfectly :  she  is  passionately  fond  of  dancing,  but  she  steadily 
refused  all  solicitations  on  the  subject." 

"  And  you  rewarded  her  attention  to  your  wishes  by  almost 
total  neglect." 

♦ 


90 


THE  EXACTING  LOVER. 


"  That  was  part  of  my  policy  ;  she  doubtless  expected  to 
be  rewarded  for  her  self-denial  by  a  double  portion  of  my 
attention — and,  had  I  been  weak  enough  to  bestow  it,  her 
forbearance  would  have  been  no  sacrifice.  As  matters  now 
stand,  she  has  learned  that  I  have  power  to  afflict  her,  and 
that  is  a  great  point  gained." 

"  So  you  expect  to  win  her  by  wounding  her :  this  might 
do  in  buffalo-hunting,  but  will  scarcely  succeed  in  love- 
making." 

"  Don't  you  see  that  I  excite  a  new  interest  by  awaken- 
ing her  apprehensions?  She  probably  felt  sure  of  my  pre- 
ference for  her  until  this  evening,  and  the  doubts  which 
my  conduct  has  excited,  will  make  her  think  of  me  untii 
we  meet  again.  A  woman  is  easily  managed  by  one  who 
is  allowed  to  engross  her  thoughts." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  give  you  my  candid  opinion  of 
your  scheme,  Howard  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  I  think  it  a  most  selfish,  cold-hearted,  rascally  method 
of  trifling  with  a  woman's  feelings." 

"  You  are  complimentary ;  but  «'  importe ;  you  are  in 
the  toils  of  a  pretty  girl  who  tyrannizes  over  you  without 
mercy,  Tom,  and  I  cannot  hope  to  bring  you  to  my  way 
of  thinking  at  present." 

"  Nor  in  future,  I  trust,  Howard  :  it  seems  to  me  unprin- 
cipled." 

"  You  are  wrong,  Tom.  I  mean  to  marry  Isabel  as  soon 
as  she  is  perfectly  broken  in." 

"  And  suppose  she  proves  intractable  ?" 

"  That  will  be  a  sufficient  proof  of  want  of  affection  on 
her  part,  and  of  course  I  shall  be  the  only  sufferer." 

"  Well,  you  certainly  have  a  cool  and  comfortable  way 
of  discussing  affairs  of  the  heart ;  but  I  do  not  envy  yon 
the  power.  When  the  feelings  are  seared  as  yours  seem  to 
be,  they  must  have  suffered  frequent  scathing,  and  I  would 
not  go  through  such  an  ordeal  of  fire,  even  to  obtain  the 
prize  of  insensibility." 

With  these  words  the  young  men  parted — one  to  dream 


THE  EXACTING  LOVER. 


91 


of  his  beautiful  but  coquetish  lady-love,  the  other  to  specu- 
late upon  the  effect  which  his  unkindness  had  produced 
upon  a  gentle  and  loving  heart. 

Wilmarth  was  one  of  those  "  men  about  town/'  who  are 
always  to  be  met  in  gay  society.  He  began  his  career  by 
falling  in  love  at  twelve  years  of  age.  with  his  cousin  of 
twenty ;  and  from  that  time  until  he  had  counted  his  thir- 
tieth summer,  he  had  been  continually  under  the  influence 
of  some  fever  dream.  A  bright  smile,  a  soft  eye,  a  sweet 
voice,  a  delicate  form,  a  pretty  foot,  were  each  in  turn  suffi- 
cient to  bewitch  him  for  the  time  ;  and  the  ease  with  which 
he  became  enchanted  and  disenchanted,  seemed  to  him  less 
the  effect  of  his  own  fickleness  than  the  result  of  his  over- 
estimation  of  the  power  of  woman's  spells.  His  handsome 
person  and  elegant  manners  made  him  always  welcome 
in  the  circles  of  fashion,  while  his  lucrative  profession  and 
rising  reputation  gave  him  interest  in  the  eyes  of  prudent 
parents.  He  had  met  with  so  much  success  in  society,  that 
he  had  learned  to  think  too  highly  of  himself,  as  well  as 
too  humbly  of  his  neighbors ;  and  his  opinion  of  women 
had  become  more  degrading  and  unjust  in  proportion  as  he 
had  received  new  proofs  of  their  refined  susceptibility  of 
feeling.  He  had  been  loved  fondly  and  truly  by  more  than 
one  noble-hearted  woman ;  but  these  things  occurred  at  a 
period  when  he  could  not  summon  courage  enough  to  resign 
his  brilliant  position  for  the  comparatively  uninteresting 
character  of  the  married  man,  and  he  had  coolly  extricated 
himself  from  such  dilemmas  without  difficulty.  He  had 
no  faith  in  the  stability  of  woman's  feelings,  and  could  not 
be  made  to  believe  that  the  agreeable  flirtations  which  were 
so  pleasant  while  they  lasted,  and  occasioned  so  little  pain 
to  him  in  their  termination,  were  productive  of  more  serious 
grief  to  the  belle  than  to  the  beau.  But  he  had  now  be- 
come wearied  of  this  aimless  and  roving  life.  He  wanted 
some  one  to  minister  to  his  whims,  to  study  his  comforts, 
to  wait  upon  him  more  faithfully  than  a  hireling,  and  \i2 
therefore  decided  to  marry. 

Isabel  Forrester  was  no  heroine  of  romance — no  creature 


92 


THE  EXACTING  LOVER. 


of  improbable  perfection.  She  was  a  meek,  quiet,  tender 
girl,  with  faculties  yet  to  be  developed  by  circumstances, 
and  warm  affections,  which,  from  childhood,  had  been 
lavished  upon  every  thing  and  every  body  around  her. 
She  was  perfectly  unsophisticated  in  feeling,  and  the  idea 
of  saying  or  doing  anything  merely  for  effect,  never  entered 
her  mind.  Wilmarth's  experience  in  the  world  had  made 
him  master  of  the  arts  of  pleasing,  and  it  is  not  surprising 
that  he  should  soon  have  excited  an  interest  in  the  bosom 
of  the  artless  girl.  She  did  not  begin  to  speculate  upon  his 
motives  for  distinguishing  her  by  his  attentions;  no  true- 
hearted  woman  ever  thinks  of  such  things  till  they  are  sug- 
gested by  some  officious  friend  ;  nor  did  she  at  once  calcu- 
late her  chances  of  matrimony  :  she  was  influenced  too  much 
by  the  impulses  of  feeling  to  be  so  fully  awake  to  selfish 
interest.  She  liked  Wilmarth,  and  was  charmed  with  his 
adroit  adaptation  of  himself  to  suit  her  tastes.  She  loved 
poetry — and  he  was  an  admirable  reciter ;  she  was  a  fine 
musician — and  he  had  a  decided  taste  if  not  a  talent  for 
"  sweet  sounds  ;"  she  was  fond  of  reading — and  his  choice 
of  books  was  excellent :  in  short,  he  left  no  means  untried 
to  convince  her  of  the  congeniality  which  existed  between 
their  minds.  As  soon  as  he  was  assured  of  her  preference 
for  him,  (and  a  man  of  the  world  soon  discovers  this)  he 
commenced  his  system  of  training.  He  did  not  at  once  pre- 
sume to  censure  her,  for  this  might  have  aroused  her  pride ; 
but  he  insinuated  his  wishes- -and  Isabel,  with  the  devoted- 
ness  of  a  true  woman,  endeavored  to  mould  herself  to  his 
will.  He  at  first  undertook  to  correct  her  taste  in  books — 
and  to  this  Isabel  submitted  with  the  meek  humility  of  one 
who  was  conscious  of  her  mental  inferiority.  He  then  scru- 
tinized, with  a  critical  eye,  her  style  of  dress,  and  lauded 
a  severe  simplicity  of  attire,  until  Isabel  banished  gay  colors, 
ribbons,  and  jewels,  and  assumed  a  garb  of  almost  Quaker 
neatness.  Her  rich  curls  were  braided  back  from  her  brow, 
her  dresses  were  all  selected  from  those  grave,  sombre  tints 
always  so  unbecoming  in  fresh  youth  ;  and  an  embroidered 
handkerchief,  which  she  ventured  to  exhibit,  after  having 


THE   EXACTING  LOVER. 


93 


heard  a  tirade  against  such  follies  from  the  lips  of  the  sage 
Mr.  Wilmarth,  cos't  her  a  night  of  sleeplessness  and  tears. 

So  far,  Wilmarth's  scheme  had  succeeded  perfectly,  but 
he  determined  to  try  still  more  severe  experiments.  His 
conduct  on  the  evening  before  alluded  to,  was  his  first 
attempt,  and  what  it  cost  Isabel  may  be  best  imagined  by 
those  who  can  remember  the  first  awakening  of  distrust  in 
the  youthful  and  confiding  heart.  That  Wilmarth  loved 
her,  she  could  not  doubt,  for  his  looks,  his  manners,  all  dis- 
closed his  attachment ;  but  the  words  which  bind  heart  to 
heart  in  that  contract  which  the  world  holds  to  be  only  less 
irrefragable  than  the  church's  bond,  had  never  yet  been 
uttered.  They  were  not  affianced  lovers,  and  therefore 
Isabel,  though  feeling  herself  wronged  and  outraged,  knew 
she  had  no  right  to  complain.  That  night,  Isabel's  head 
pressed  a  sleepless  pillow,  but  with  the  morning  came  a 
feeling  of  pride  and  a  sense  of  shame  such  as  she  had  never 
before  experienced.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had 
something  to  conceal,  (alas !  it  is  too  often  the  first  grief 
which  teaches  the  first  deception,)  and  with  a  pale  cheek 
but  calm  brow,  she  took  her  accustomed  seat  in  the  drawing- 
room.  At  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  Wilmarth  made  his 
appearance.  He  was  prepared  for  sadness  and  reproaches, 
but  Isabel's  cold,  proud  demeanor,  made  him  fear  he  had 
gone  too  far.  He  had  no  wish  to  lose  his  influence  over 
the  lady,  for  Isabel  was  an  heiress,  and  in  his  anxiety  to 
regain  his  power,  he  uttered  those  expressions  of  tenderness 
and  love,  which,  once  spoken,  are  never  to  be  recalled. 
They  had  met  with  coldness  and  distrust,  but  they  parted 
as  betrothed  lovers — and  thus,  in  despite  of  his  themes  and 
his  systems,  Wilmarth  found  himself,  after  all,  the  toy  of 
natural  impulses. 

Notwithstanding  his  pleasure  at  having  secured  the  lady 
and  her  fortune,  Wilmarth  was  seriously  alarmed  when  he 
reflected  upon  the  consequences  of  his  precipitation.  He 
fancied  that  Isabel  would  now  assert  her  sovereignty,  and 
he  knew  that  the  opinion  of  society  would  uphold  her  in 
claiming  her  right  to  his  attentions.    The  situation  of  an 


94 


THE   EXACTING  LOVER. 


engaged  lover,  compelled  to  dangle  for  eyer  at  the  side  of 
his  lady-love — ahout  as  useful  to  her  as  her  reticule,  yet  as 
much  in  demand  as  if  really  essential  to  her  hourly  exist- 
ence— had  always  struck  him  as  supremely  ridiculous  ; 
and  even  while  secretly  rejoicing  in  his  success,  he  deter- 
mined to  guard  against  any  advantage  which  Isabel  might 
hope  from  his  weakness.  His  first  step,  therefore,  was  to 
enjoin  the  strictest  secresy  concerning  their  engagement ; 
and  when  Isabel  cheerfully  acceded  to  a  wish  which  still 
seemed  to  her  very  unaccountable,  he  resumed  his  former 
habits  of  dictation  and  direction. 

A  woman  will  bear  much  from  one  she  loves,  so  long  as 
no  doubt  exists  of  his  affection — so  long  as  she  is  rewarded 
by  a  proper  appreciation  of  her  tenderness.  Isabel  some- 
times felt  a  sort  of  meek  wonder  at  Wilmarth's  exactions ; 
she  sometimes  caught  herself  wishing  that  he  was  less  diffi- 
cult to  please,  and  less  fastidious  in  his  ideas  of  womanly 
duties  and  womanly  impulses,  but  the  thought  of  paying  no 
heed  to  his  suggestions  and  counsels,  never  occurred  to  her 
as  possible.  She  considered  it  her  duty  to  begin  at  once  the 
task  of  assimilation — to  adapt  herself  immediately  to  the 
tastes  of  him  who  was  to  be  her  future  companion  through 
life,  but  she  was  scarcely  prepared  for  so  much  self-denial 
as  she  was  now  called  to  practise.  In  the  course  of  a  very 
short  time  she  found  herself  completely  shut  out  from  society, 
restricted  to  the  coldest  and  most  ceremonious  intercourse 
with  former  friends — debarred  the  privilege  of  walking  or 
talking  with  whom  she  pleased — forbidden  to  mingle  iu  the 
dance — her  modes  of  thinking  and  acting  marked  out  for 
her — and  her  very  impulses  restrained  or  directed  by  the 
will  of  her  lover.  Yet  Isabel  bore  with  all  his  caprices, 
for  she  truly  loved  him,  and  considered  his  whims  rather  as 
proofs  of  the  jealous  tenderness  of  his  nature,  or  at  the  worst, 
but  as  slight  infirmities  of  temper.  There  was  no  sacrifice, 
however  great,  which  she  would  not  willingly  have  made 
for  him ;  but  it  can  scarcely  be  wondered  at  if  the  thousand 
petty  exactions  which  were  constantly  marring  the  quiet  of 
her  life,  should,  in  the  course  of  time,  weary  her,  and  per- 


THE  EXACTING  LOVER. 


95 


haps  suggest  a  doubt  of  the  high-mindedness  of  one  whose 
thoughts  dwelt  so  much  in  trifling  details. 

Isabel  had  borne  for  months  with  Wilmarth's  freaks  of 
coldness,  his  capricious  devotion  to  others,  his  occasional 
outbreaks  of  anger,  and  his  unreasonable  control  over  her 
actions.  But  at  length,  circumstances  too  trivial  to  be 
recorded,  yet,  taken  in  connection,  forming  a  chain  of  con- 
tinued evidence  not  to  be  disputed,  led  her  to  suspect  that 
his  apparent  caprice  was  the  result  of  a  systematic  plan. 
At  first  the  thought  was  too  painful  to  be  indulged  for  a 
moment ;  but  distrust  once  admitted,  was  not  to  be  repelled, 
and  in  sadness  of  spirit  Isabel  was  compelled  to  admit  the 
belief  of  her  lover's  selfishness.  A  conversation  which  she 
accidentally  overheard  between  Wilmarth  and  his  cousin, 
removed  all  doubts  on  the  subject.  She  heard  Wilmarth 
congratulate  himself  on  his  success  in  training  her;  she 
heard  herself  spoken  of  as  the  tame,  subdued,  devoted  crea- 
ture, who  had  nearly  attained  the  requisite  point  of  perfec- 
tion— and  from  that  moment  resentment  took  the  place  of 
her  relying  love.  She  felt  herself  outraged  and  insulted ; 
her  affections  had  been  used  as  fetters  to  bind  her  to  a  vic- 
tor's car  of  triumph  ;  she  had  been  made  the  sport  of  man's 
selfishness  ;  her  heart  had  been  as  a  sweet  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  a  cunning  player,  and  every  stop  had  been  sound- 
ed, not  in  response  to  the  voice  of  love,  but  in  obedience  to 
the  will  of  a  cold  experimentalist.  Isabel  was  a  proud  as 
well  as  a  true-hearted  woman.  She  would  not  reproach 
Wilmarth — she  would  not  even  ask  an  explanation— but 
with  that  quickness  of  feeling  which  is  a  woman's  gravest 
error  as  well  as  her  sweetest  charm,  she  concluded  that  he 
had  never  loved  her.  Once  convinced  of  his  object  in  guard- 
ing her  with  such  jealous  care — once  assured  that  it  was 
less  the  tender  reserve  of  affection  than  the  selfish  wish  to 
rule,  and  Isabel  became  again  her  own  mistress.  The  sub- 
mission which  love  might  have  exacted  through  a  long 
life  of  cheerful  self-denial,  was  refused  to  cold,  calculating 
tyranny. 

Without  one  word  of  explanation  or  deprecation,  Isabel 


96 


THE  EXACTING  LOVER. 


returned  to  society  and  resumed  her  former  habits.  Her 
voice  was  again  heard  in  the  cheerful  song — her  step  was 
once  more  lightest  in  the  dance — her  beauty  once  more 
dazzled  and  delighted  a  circle  of  admiring  worshippers.  To 
Wilmarth's  fierce  and  angry  remonstrances  she  turned  a 
deaf  ear — to  his  earnest  professions  she  replied  with  a  smile 
of  incredulity — to  his  real  anxiety  of  mind  she  gave  not  the 
slightest  credence.  Whatever  regrets  she  felt,  were  hidden 
beneath  a  calm  demeanor,  or  dissipated  in  the  gay  scenes  of 
busy  life  ;  and  Isabel  proved,  in  progress  of  time,  as  every 
proud  woman  must  do  when  convinced  that  her  heart  has 
been  given  to  one  unworthy  of  its  treasures,  that  she  grieved 
less  for  the  lover  than  for  the  love,  which  had  passed  away 
from  her  as  the  dew  from  the  early  rose.  The  youth  of  her 
heart  was  gone ;  she  had  learned  her  first  lesson  in  disap- 
pointment, and  for  her  the  romance  of  life  was  past  for  ever. 

Wilmarth  knew  not  how  much  he  really  loved  Isabel 
until  she  was  lost  to  him.  In  vain  he  endeavored  to  regain 
his  influence  over  her — in  vain  he  sought  to  convince  her 
how  entirely  his  happiness  depended  on  her. 

"You  deceive  yourself,  Mr.  Wilmarth,"  was  her  cold 
reply  :  "  I  am  not  the  person  calculated  to  make  you  happy. 
Some  Circassian  beauty,  who  would  feel  honored  in  being 
permitted  to  be  your  slave,  would  better  suit  one  who  uses 
affection  but  as  a  coil  to  ensnare  the  free  will  Had  you 
given  me  one  honest  feeling — had  you  yielded  to  one  true 
impulse  while  I  was  pouring  out  the  fulness  of  my  heart 
at  your  feet — had  you  been  any  other  than  the  cold,  calcu- 
lating man  of  the  world,  which  your  conduct  has  since 
shown  you,  I  might  have  forgiven  you ;  but  now,  I  would 
rather  wed  with  the  merest  clod  that  ever  wore  human  form, 
than  give  my  hand  to  one  who  could  offer  the  spurious  coin 
of  false  affection  in  exchange  for  woman's  true  and  loving 
heart." 

Wilmarth  thought  long  on  Isabel's  last  words,  and  he 
remembered  them  with  deeper  bitterness  when  he  afterwards 
beheld  her  the  honored  and  apparently  happy  wife  of  one 
who  had  long  loved  her  with  a  more  unselfish  and  confiding 


HEAVEN. 


97 


tenderness.  Years  have  passed  since  then,  but  he  has  never 
yet  found  the  creature  worthy  or  willing  to  become  his  wife. 
He  is  now  fast  falling  into  "  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf" — the 
weight  of  half  a  century  lies  heavy  upon  him,  and  all  the 
skill  of  the  perruquier,  the  dentist,  and  the  tailor,  cannot 
conceal  the  fact  that — 

"  Time  may  fly  with  the  wings  of  the  hawk,  but  his  steps 
Are  marked  by  the  feet  of  the  crow." 

A  lonely  and  disappointed  bachelor — leading  an  aimless 
and  joyless  life— tolerated  in  circles  where  he  was  wont  to 
be  courted — banished  to  fireside  corners  with  the  comely 
matrons  who  were  his  cotemporaries.  while  those  who  were 
unborn  in  the  days  of  his  early  triumphs,  now  elbow  him 
from  the  course — he  has  learned  to  repent  his  vain  attempt 
to  manage  a  tender  and  truthful  woman  by  other  means 
than  the  rule  of  love. 


HEAVEN. 


BY  C.  D.  STUART. 


As  distant  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
When  friends  go  thence,  draw  nigh, 

So  Heaven,  when  friends  have  thither  gone, 
Draws  nearer  from  the  sky. 

And  as  those  lands  the  dearer  grow 

When  friends  are  long  away, 
So  Heaven  itself,  through  loved  ones  dead, 

Grows  dearer  day  by  day. 

Heaven  is  not  far  from  those  who  see 

With  the  pure  spirit's  sight ; 
But  near,  and  in  the  very  hearts, 

Of  those  who  see  aright. 


HE    CAME    TOO  LATE! 


He  came  too  late ! — Neglect  had  tried 

Her  constancy  too  long ; 
Her  Jove  had  yielded  to  her  pride, 

And  the  deep  sense  of  wrong. 
She  scorned  the  offering  of  a  heart 

Which  lingered  on  its  way, 
Till  it  could  no  delight  impart, 

Nor  spread  one  cheering  ray. 

He  came  too  late  ! — At  once  he  felt 

That  all  his  power  was  o'er! 
Indifference  in  her  calm  smile  dwelt — 

She  thought  of  him  no  more ! 
Anger  and  grief  had  passed  away — 

Her  heart  and  thoughts  were  free ; 
She  met  him,  and  her  words  were  gay — 

No  spell  had  memory. 

He  came  too  late ! — The  subtle  chords 

Of  love  were  all  unbound — 
Not  by  offence  of  spoken  words, 

But  by  the  slights  that  wound  ! 
She  knew  that  life  held  nothing  now 

That  could  the  past  repay, 
Yet  she  disdained  his  tardy  vow, 

And  coldly  turned  away ! 

He  came  too  late ! — Her  countless  dreams 

Of  hope  had  long  since  flown ; 
No  charms  dwelt  in  his  chosen  themes, 

Nor  in  his  whispered  tone. 
And  when,  with  word  and  smile,  he  tried 

Affection  still  to  prove, 
She  nerved  her  heart  with  woman's  pride, 

And  spurned  his  fickle  love ! 


ERIS:    A    SPIRIT  RECORD. 


BY  WALTER  WHITMAN. 


Who  says  that  there  are  not  angels  or  invisible  spirits 
watching  around  us?  The  teeming  regions  of  the  air 
swarm  with  bodiless  ghosts — bodiless  to  human  sight,  be- 
cause of  their  exceeding  and  too  dazzling  beauty ! 

And  there  is  one,  childlike,  with  helpless  and  unsteady 
movements,  but  a  countenance  of  immortal  bloom,  whose 
long-lashed  eyes  droop  downward.  The  name  of  the  shape 
is  Dai.  When  he  comes  near,  the  angels  are  silent,  and 
gaze  upon  him  with  pity  and  affection.  And  the  fair  eyes 
of  the  shape  roll,  but  fix  upon  no  object:  while  his  lips 
move,  but  a  plaintive  tone  only  is  heard — the  speaking  of 
a  single  name.  Wandering  in  the  confines  of  earth,  or  rest- 
lessly amid  the  streets  of  the  beautiful  land,  goes  Dai,  earn- 
estly calling  on  one  he  loves. 

Wherefore  is  there  no  response? 

Soft  as  the  feathery  leaf  of  the  frailest  flower — pure  as 
the  heart  of  flame — of  a  beauty  so  lustrous  that  the  sons  of 
Heaven  themselves  might  well  be  drunken  to  gaze  thereon — 
with  fleecy  robes  that  but  half  apparel  a  maddening  white- 
ness and  grace — dwells  Eris  among  the  creatures  beautiful, 
a  chosen  and  cherished  one.  And  Eris  is  the  name  called 
by  the  wandering  angel — while  no  answer  comes,  and  the 
loved  flies  swiftly  away,  with  a  look  of  sadness  and  dis- 
pleasure. 

It  had  been  years  before  that  a  maid  and  her  betrothed 
lived  in  one  of  the  pleasant  places  of  earth.  Their  hearts 
clung  to  each  other  with  fondness  of  young  life  and  all  its 
dreamy  passion.  Each  was  simple  and  innocent.  Mor- 
tality might  not  know  a  thing  better  than  their  love,  or  more 
sunny  than  their  happiness. 


100 


ERIS  :   A   SPIRIT  RECORD. 


In  the  method  of  the  rule  of  fate,  it  was  ordered  that  the 
maid  should  sicken,  and  be  drawn  nigh  to  the  gates  of 
death — nigh,  but  not  through  them.  Now,  to  the  young 
who  love  purely,  High  Power  commissions  to  each  a  gentle 
guardian,  who  hovers  around  unseen  day  and  night.  The 
office  of  this  spirit  is  to  keep  a  sleepless  watch,  and  fill  the 
heart  of  his  charge  with  strange  and  mysterious  and  lovely 
thoughts.  Over  the  maid  was  placed  Dai,  and  through 
her  illness  the  unknown  presence  of  the  youth  hung  near 
continually. 

To  the  immortal,  days,  years,  and  centuries  are  the 
same. 

Erewhile,  a  cloud  was  seen  in  Heaven.  The  delicate 
ones  bent  their  necks,  and  shook  as  if  a  chill  blast  had  swept 
by — and  white  robes  were  drawn  around  shivering  and  ter- 
rified forms. 

An  archangel  with  veiled  cheeks  cleaved  the  air.  Silence 
spread  through  the  hosts  of  the  passed  away,  who  gazed 
in  wonder  and  fear.  And  as  they  gazed,  they  saw  a  new 
companion  of  wondrous  loveliness  among  them — a  strange 
and  timid  creature,  who,  were  it  not  that  pain  must  never 
enter  those  borders  with  innocence,  would  have  been  called 
unhappy.  The  angels  gathered  around  the  late  comer 
with  caresses  and  kisses,  and  they  smiled  pleasantly  with 
joy  in  each  other's  eyes. 

Then  the  archangel's  voice  was  heard — and  they  who 
heard  it,  knew  that  One  still  mightier  spake  his  will  there- 
in : — 

"  The  child  Dai !"  said  he. 

A  far  reply  sounded  out  in  tones  of  trembling  and  appre- 
hension— 
"  I  am  here  !" 

And  the  youth  came  forth  from  the  distant  confines  whi- 
ther he  had  been  in  solitude.  The  placid  look  of  peace  no 
more  illumined  his  brow  with  silver  light,  and  his  unearthly 
beauty  was  as  a  choice  statue  enveloped  in  mist  and  smoke. 

"  Oh,  weak  and  wicked  spirit !"  said  the  archangel,  "  thou 
hast  been  false  to  thy  mission  and  thy  Master !" 


ERIS  :   A  SPIRIT  RECORD. 


101 


The  quivering  limbs  of  Dai  felt  weak  and  cold.  He 
would  have  made  an  answer  in  agony — but  at  that  moment 
he  lifted  his  eyes  and  beheld  the  countenance  of  Eris,  the 
late  comer. 

Love  is  potent,  even  in  Heaven  !  And  subtle  passion 
creeps  into  the  hearts  of  the  sons  of  beauty,  who  feel  the 
delicious  impulse,  and  know  that  there  is  a  soft  sadness 
sweeter  than  aught  in  the  round  of  their  pleasure  eternal. 

When  the  youth  saw  Eris,  he  sprang  forward  with  light- 
ning swiftness  to  her  side.  But  the  late  comer  turned  away 
with  aversion.  The  band  of  good-will  might  not  be  be- 
tween them,  because  of  wrongs  done,  and  the  planting  of 
despair  in  two  happy  human  hearts. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  myriads  of  interlinked  spirits 
that  range  step  by  step  from  the  throne  of  the  Uppermost, 
(as  the  power  of  that  light  and  presence  which  is  unbear- 
able even  to  the  deathless,  must  be  tempered  for  the  sight 
of  any  created  thing,  however  lofty,)  were  conscious  of  a 
motion  of  the  mind  of  God.  Quicker  than  electric  thought 
the  command  was  accomplished  !  The  disobedient  angel 
felt  himself  enveloped  in  a  sudden  cloud,  impenetrably  dark. 
The  face  of  Eris  gladdened  and  maddened  him  no  more. 
He  turned  himself  to  and  fro,  and  stretched  out  his  arms — 
but  though  he  knew  the  nearness  of  his  companions,  the 
light  of  Heaven,  and  of  the  eyes  of  Eris,  was  strangely  seal- 
ed to  him.    The  youth  was  blind  forever ! 

So  a  wandering  angel  sweeps  through  space  with  restless 
and  unsteady  movements — and  the  sound  heard  from  his 
lips  is  the  calling  of  a  single  name.  But  the  loved  flies 
swiftly  away  in  sadness,  and  heeds  him  not.  Onward  and 
onward  speeds  the  angel,  amid  scenes  of  ineffable  splendor, 
though  to  his  sight  the  splendor  is  darkness.  But  there  is 
one  scene  that  rests  before  him  alway.  It  is  of  a  low  brown 
dwelling  among  the  children  of  men  ;  and  in  an  inner  room 
a  couch,  whereon  lies  a  young  maid,  whose  cheeks  rival 
the  frailness  and  paleness  of  foam.  Near  by  is  a  youth  ; 
and  the  filmy  eyes  of  the  girl  are  bent  upon  him  in  fond- 
ness.   What  dim  shape  hovers  overhead?    He  is  invisible 


102 


ERIS  :  A  SPIRIT  RECORD. 


to  mortals ;  but,  oh  !  well  may  the  blind  spirit,  by  the  token 
of  throbs  of  guilty  and  fiery  love  beating  through  him,  know- 
that  hovering  form !  Thrust  forward  by  such  fiery  love, 
the  shape  dared  transcend  his  duty.  Again  the  youth 
looked  upon  the  couch,  and  beheld  a  lifeless  corpse. 

This, is  the  picture  upon  the  vision  of  Dai.  His  brethren 
of  the  bands  of  light,  as  they  meet  him  in  his  journeyings, 
pause  awhile  for  pity  ;  yet  never  do  the  pangs  of  their  sym- 
pathy (the  only  pangs  known  to  those  sinless  creatures, 
or  arms  thrown  softly  around  him,  or  kisses  on  his  brow,) 
efface  the  pale  lineaments  of  the  sick  girl — the  dead. 

In  the  portals  of  Heaven  stands  Eris.  oft  peering  into  the 
outer  distance.  Nor  of  the  millions  of  winged  messengers 
that  hourly  come  and  go,  does  one  enter  there  whose  features 
are  not  earnestly  scanned  by  the  watcher.  And  the  fond 
joy  resides  in  her  soul,  that  the  time  is  nigh  at  hand  ;  for 
a  thread  yet  binds  the  angel  down  to  the  old  abode,  and, 
until  the  breaking  of  that  bond,  Eris  keeps  vigil  in  the  por- 
tals of  Heaven. 

The  limit  of  the  watch  comes  soon.  On  earth,  a  toil- 
worn  man  has  returned  from  distant  travel,  and  lays  him 
down,  weary  and  faint  at  heart,  on  a  floor  amid  the  ruins 
of  that  low  brown  dwelling.  The  slight  echo  is  heard  of 
moans  coming  from  the  breast  of  one  who  yearns  to  die.  Life, 
and  rosy  light,  and  the  pleasant  things  of  nature,  and  the 
voice  and  sight  of  his  fellows,  and  the  glory  of  thought — 
the  sun,  the  flowers,  the  glittering  stars,  the  soft  breeze — 
have  no  joy  for  him.  And  the  coffin  and  the  cold  earth 
have  no  horror ;  they  are  a  path  to  the  unforgotten. 

Thus  the  tale  is  told  in  Heaven,  how  the  pure  love  of 
two  human  beings  is  a  sacred  thing,  which  the  immortal 
themselves  must  not  dare  to  cross.  In  pity  to  the  disobe- 
dient angel  he  is  blind,  that  he  may  not  gaze  ceaselessly 
on  one  who  returns  his  love  with  displeasure.  And  haply 
Dai  is  the  spirit  of  the  destiny  of  those  whose  selfishness 
would  seek  to  mar  the  peace  of  gentle  hearts,  by  their  own 
unreturned  and  unhallowed  passion. 


SLANDER 


How  many  there  are,  who  can  say  with  almost  a  broken 
heart,  "Surely  the  tongue  is  an  unruly  evil,  full  of  deadly 
poison  !"  How  many  a  ruined  character  can  exclaim,  with 
a  bleeding-  heart,  "Behold,  how  great  a  matter  a  little  fire 
kindleth  !"  Surely,  it  has  crushed  a  thousand  hopes,  and 
sent  to  the  grave  of  peaceful  rest  many  a  fair  reputation  ! 

Slander  is  a  crying  evil.  Few  there  are  who  possess  that 
fiendish  and  vampire-like  disposition  to  take  that  from  a  per- 
son which  is  near  to  him  as  the  blood  of  his  own  heart.  But, 
there  are  some  who  can  calmly  and  sedately  sap  the  fair 
fame,  and  pluck  the  laurel  of  reputation  from  their  brow, 
and  cause  them  to  wither  as  the  rose. 

Behold,  for  a  moment,  the  Slanderer  !  He  comes  forth 
with  pleasantness  and  gaiety.  He  is  unassuming  in  his 
deportment,  and  the  robe  of  peace  seems  to  be  his  mantle. 
He  hails  you  with  joy  and  congratulation.  He  begins  with 
vague,  insignificant  surmise,  and  small  broken  hints,  or 
some  small  detached  expression  of  some  child-like  story, 
believing  every  utterable  word,  and  then  marshals  or  puts 
them  together  to  his  own  liking,  and  at  last  he  puts  them 
afloat  in  the  public  ear. 

It  then  goes  on  from  one  tongue  to  another,  concealed  like 
a  tiger  in  a  jungle,  creeping  for  his  prey  ;  and  the  public 
mind  being  such,  that  one  whisper  is  enough  to  shadow  and 
becloud  the  brightest  and  fairest  character  that  has  acquired 
years  to  establish.  It  is  like  breath  upon  a  looking-glass. 
Thus  the  whisper  or  hint  goes  on  from  one  to  another,  like 
the  secret  leaven,  till  at  last  it  breaks  out,  all  at  once,  in 
words.  Then  comes  the  tug  of  war.  Then,  there  comes 
a  mighty  tornado,  sweeping  and  laying  in  ruins  the  fair 
hopes  of  future  anticipations.  It  falls  like  the  astonished 
shock  of  a  thunderbolt  from  a  clear  sky. 


104  BE  KIND. 

In  such  cases,  could  the  person  slandered,  but  trace  it,  h< 
would  find  that  it  was  but  a  mere  dint — a  dim  or  minute 
germ — having  grown  out  of  mere  nothing,  and  by  using, 
and  transition  from  one  to  another,  into  a  notorious  and 
odious  calumny. 

Such  is  slander  in  its  protean  form.  The  fair,  unblemish- 
ed character,  lies  bleeding  at  every  pore.  What  a  fine  and 
vital  cord  do  you  snap,  when  you  snap  the  most  tiny  thread 
of  character !  Deplorable  is  the  man  when  character  is 
gone  !  Truly  it  is  an  unruly  evil,  full  of  deadly  poison.  It 
infuses  the  whole  atmosphere  of  mind  with  its  poisonous 
effluvia  and  death. 

Surely,  indeed,  no  man  can  tame  the  tongue  of  others, 
or  can  stop  the  onward  move  of  the  Slanderer's  tongue.  He 
must  stand  as  the  bleeding  object  of  a  thousand  arrows,  with- 
out a  possibility  to  shield  himself.  He  goes  on  and  down 
to  the  grave,  or  couches  through  life  with  life's  very  essence 
turned  to  bitterness  and  all  his  hopes  withered.  Oh  !  let  us 
beware  of  giving  birth  to  slander !  A  wound  made  by  the 
arrow  of  slander  can  never  be  healed.  Let  us  beware  of  a 
slanderous  tongue — it  is  full  of  deadly  poison. 


BE  KIND. 


Let  us  be  kind — for  who  has  not 
Been  more  or  less  imperfect  here? — 

Who  fain  would  have  his  sins  forgot, 
Or  blotted  out  by  Pity's  tear1? 

Forgiveness  is  a  gentle  word — 
Upon  whose  tone  how  many  live ! 

And  since  we  all  have  sinned  or  erred, 
Why  not  each  other's  faults  forgive? 

Oh  !  let  our  hearts  be  kindly  cast, 
Until  we  cross  the  downward  tide — 

Like  barques  that  feel  a  common  blast, 
And  haste  to  anchor  side  by  side. 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 


93 


could  visit  Augustina,  although  I  had  intended  it  One  morn- 
ing I  received  the  following  note  : 

"  My  dearest  Mr.  President :— Must  your  old  friend  learn  first  from 
the  papers  that  you  are  here  ?  Under  fear  of  ray  displeasure,  I  command 
you  to  come  this  evening  and  sup  with  me,  in  company  with  some  good 
friends.    Do  not  fail.        Yours  attached,  A.  Von  Winter." 

Natural  enough  1  who  would  fail  ?  But  yet  the  tone  in  which 
she  asked  me,  did  not  exactly  please  me.  I  had  imagined  her 
first  address  very  differently,  for  there  had  come  over  me  a 
peculiar  anxiety  and  fear,  when  I  on  the  previous  days  had 
thought,  "  I  must  go  and  see  her."  The  separation  for  so  many 
years,  the  various  succeeding  events  in  this  interval  of  time,  the 
old  passion,  and  since  then  the  changes  between  us  two  ;  these 
ideas  all  filled  me  with  peculiar,  and  I  may  say  contradictory 
emotions,  which  made  me  dread  the  first  meeting  with  my 
former  love. 

With  a  violent  heart-beating  I  entered  the  coach  and  alighted 
before  the  old  Waldern  house,  now  the  house  of  Winter.  Over 
the  door  I  saw  the  coat  of  arms  of  a  nobleman  cut  in  the  stone. 
Within,  everything  was  new  and  elegant,  so  much  so  that  I 
hardly  knew  myself  there  ;  but  two  quick-footed  servants  in  pale 
green  and  gold  livery,  conducted  me  in  the  right  direction,  up 
the  broad  staircase,  and  into  a  spacious  saloon  filled  with 
company. 

The  lady  of  the  house,  the  gracious  lady,  received  me,  stand- 
ing at  the  entrance  of  the  apartment  It  was  Augustina — yes, 
it  was  she ;  and  yet  it  was  not  exactly  herself.  Certainly  not 
the  fresh  beauty  of  a  girl  of  nineteen ;  but  yet  she  was  charming 
as  a  woman  of  thirty,  full,  majestic,  easy.  I  could  scarcely  stam- 
mer out  a  word  or  two,  I  was  so  surprised,  so  bewildered.  Her 
eyes,  too,  her  blushes,  told  me  of  her  quickened  emotions.  But 
she  was  so  entirely  her  own  mistress,  so  self-possessed,  that  she 
saluted  me  in  the  most  agreeable  manner  possible,  drew  me  from 
my  embarrassment,  reproved  me  sportively  for  having  neglected 
an  old  acquaintance  for  so  long  a  time,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand, 
led  me  to  the  company,  and  presented  me  as  a  good  friend  whom 
she  had  not  seen  for  ten  years. 

I  soon  recovered  myself  in  the  confusion  of  a  general  sprightly 
conversation.    The  lady  of  the  house  must  do  the  honors  of  the 


94  ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 

house.  She  was  equally  kind,  pleasant,  and  amiable  to  all.  A8 
she  came  again  for  a  moment  near  me,  she  said, 

"  How  long  do  we  have  the  pleasure,  Mr.  President,  of  keep- 
ing you  in  our  city  ?"  , 

And  meeting  me  afterwards  again,  "  Excellent,  my  dearest, 
I  tell  you  once  for  all,  I  expect  you  here  every  day,  and  appoint 
you  for  the  whole  time  of  your  stay  my  cavalier e  servente." 

I  now  made  my  request  to  her  to  present  me  to  her  husband. 
"  Indeed/'  cried  she,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  where  he  is;  I  believe, 
however,  he  is  on  a  party  in  the  country,  with  the  royal  master 
of  the  hunt.    Apropos,"  added  she,  "  are  you  married  ?" 

The  evening  passed  away.  There  was  no  opportunity  for 
any  confidential  conversation  with  Augustina.  We  danced,  we 
feasted ;  wit  and  folly  reigned,  and  pomp  and  elegance  dazzled. 

I  had,  the  next  day,  the  happiness  of  seeing  the  husband  of 
Augustina.  The  Counsellor  of  Justice  was  a  man  over  fifty, 
very  fine,  very  polite,  nice,  but  sickly,  feeble  and  meagre  in  his 
appearance.  w  Not  so,  my  brave  sir,"  said  Augustina  once  in 
passing  me.  "  You  look  very  proud  near  my  dog  of  a  husband, 
and  think  to  humble  my  taste  a  little,  but  I  assure  you,  on  my 
honor,  he  is,  after  all,  a  very  good  sort  of  person.  " 

The  tone  of  the  house  did  not  please  me,  and  nothing  but  the 
urgency  of  Augustina  that  I  would  be  at  all  her  parties,  as 
much  as  my  business  would  allow  me,  could  have  moved  me  to 
go  there.  She  did  not  please  me ;  and  yet  I  found  her  so 
amiable,  her  lively  manner,  her  grace,  her  wit,  drew  me  there 
again,  often  when  old  recollections,  and  a  comparison  of  the  pre- 
sent with  the  past,  would  have  held  me  back.  I  even  felt  she 
might  be  dangerous  to  me,  in  spite  of  her  levity  and  her  fashion- 
able airs. 

"  But  are  you  indeed  happy,  my  gracious  lady  ?"  said  I  to 
her,  one  evening,  when  I  at  last  sat  alone  with  her  in  her  box 
at  the  opera. 

"  What  do  you  call  happy  ?"  replied  she. 

I  took  her  hand,  pressed  it  affectionately,  and  said,  "  I  call 
that  happiness  which  you  once  gave  my  heart.  Are  you  happy  ?" 

"  Do  you  doubt  it,  Mr.  President  ?" 

"  Then  I  am  happy,  if  you  speak  truly," 

"  Speak  truly  ?  So,  my  little  President,  are  you  still  the 
same  old  enthusiast  ?  It  befits  you  very  well.  But  do  not  forget 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE,  95 

that  an  opera  box  is  not  a  confessional.  To  tell  you  what  you 
want  to  hear,  we  must  be  by  ourselves.  Visit  me  to-morrow 
morning,  at  breakfast." 

I  pressed  her  hand  in  gratitude.  After  the  opera,  we  went 
together  to  the  house  of  a  friend  of  Augustina,  a  lady  of  the 
court,  to  join  a  supper  party. 

The  next  morning  I  was  at  her  house  at  eight  o'clock.  The 
gracious  lady  was  still  asleep.  At  ten  I  was  admitted.  She 
was  in  a  morning  dress,  but  only  the  more  lovely  for  that.  Now 
came  the  confession,  as  she  called  it.  I  learned  that  when  one 
has  passed  the  sentimental  season  of  girlhood,  she  must  seek 
her  happiness  in  solid  things.  She  was  very  well  contented  with 
her  husband,  because  he  was  reasonable  enough  to  leave  her  un- 
disturbed to  her  own  occupations.  The  old-fashioned  ideas 
which  we  have  in  our  childish  years,  vanish  when  our  under- 
standing comes.  To  be  sure,  she  could  not  deny  that  she  had 
not  by  any  means  loved  her  husband  as  she  had  loved  me ;  and 
she  added,  with  a  roguish  smile,  "  old  love  does  not  rust. 
I  like  you  still  very  well,  but  believe  me,  I  had  rather  have  you 
for  a  lover  than  a  husband." 

I  had  much  to  say  in  contradiction  to  this,  but  she  answered 
it  all  with  laughter.  Meantime  her  woman  came  and  announced 
that  breakfast  was  ready.  She  took  my  arm,  and  we  went  into 
the  well-known  garden. 

Ah,  the  dear  garden,  I  no  longer  recognized  it.  The  old 
flower-beds  were  gone  ;  instead  of  them  there  were  clumps  of 
foreign  shrubs  and  trees  arranged  after  the  so-called  English 
taste,  between  green  grass  plats,  single  paths  wound  about 
them.  The  vine-bower  was  changed  into  a  close  Chinese  temple, 
shaded  by  the  two  acacias.  We  entered  it.  It  was  the  pret- 
tiest boudoir  in  the  world.  Instead  of  the  green  wooden  bench, 
a  well-stuffed  mahogany  sofa  offered  us  a  seat  before  a  japan 
table,  on  which  was  placed  coffee,  chocolate,  and  sweetmeats. 

"  Oh,  the  beautiful  holy  vine  bower,  our  church,  our  altar, 
our  childish  blessedness,  oh,  where  is  it  all  ?"  sighed  I,  and  gave 
a  glance  to  Augustina,  filled  with  sad  reproach. 

"  Does  happiness,  then,  depend  upon  the  vine  bower  ?"  said 
she,  smiling.  "  I  suppose  for  the  same  reason,  I  am  not  half  so 
dear  to  you  as  I  was  ten  years  ago,  because  I  no  longer  wear 
the  same  dress." 


96 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 


"  But,  Augustina — yes,  I  must  call  you  so  once  more,  and  this 
place  gives  me  the  right— -have  not  certain  memorials  of  those 
divine  moments  always  remained  with  you  ?  For  example,  see 
here  your  gold  ring,  which  ten  years  since  you  placed  upon  my 
finger.    I  have  constantly  worn  it  since  as  a  holy  treasure." 

"  And  I,  to  honor  you,  also,  at  least  at  breakfast  to-day,  have 
the  well-known  pewter  ring,"  said  Augustina,  and  she  held  her 
hand  before  my  face.  "  You  see  it  has  turned  black,  and  yet  I 
place  it  in  my  jewel  case,  a  jewel  among  jewels." 

As  I  looked  at  the  ring,  a  bitter  feeling  came  over  me.  I  took 
her  beautiful  hand,  which  the  ring  made  more  beautiful,  and  im- 
pressed upon  it  a  kiss  of  gratitude.  Augustina  withdrew  her 
hand  and  said : 

"  Gustavus,  you  are  still  the  same  impatient  enthusiast ;  it  is 
not  well  for  you  to  be  near  me.  With  you  I  might,  perhaps, 
have  been  happier." 

After  we  had  breakfasted,  we  left  the  Chinese  temple,  while 
she  held  up  her  finger  with  a  threatening  air  and  said  : 

"  Ah,  Mr.  President,  it  is  not  well  to  confess  to  you." 

She  then  resumed  her  usual  sportive  manner  of  conversing, 
and  reminded  me  of  the  hour  when  I  should  meet  her  at  a  ball 
in  the  evening. 

Though  I  remained  fourteen  days  longer  in  the  city,  I  had  no 
farther  opportunity  to  see  Augustina  alone,  perhaps  because  I 
avoided  any.  Notwithstanding,  from  the  moment  I  left  the 
Chinese  temple,  I  felt  the  last  spark  of  love  extinguished  in  my 
breast.  I  could  not  conceal  from  myself  that  there  might  be 
danger  in  our  meeting  in  this  way.  The  time  of  my  departure 
came.  Oh,  how  different  the  parting  from  that  of  ten  years  ago  ! 
We  separated  with  drums  and  trumpets  at  a  ridotto,  which  I 
left  early  because  I  was  to  set  out  on  my  journey  the  next  day. 
We  had  waltzed  with  each  other,  and  said  many  pretty  things. 
She  accompanied  me  to  the  door,  and  called  after  me  an  adieu, 
mon  ami,  while  she  was  reaching  her  hand  to  another  partner  in 
the  dance. 

I  was  glad  at  heart  to  fly  from  the  wearisome  bustle  of  the 
great  world,  and  belong  again  to  myself.  I  mused  at  my  ease 
over  what  was  to  be  my  future  life,  as  I  traveled  through  fields 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 


97 


and  forests,  through  cities  and  villages.  I  mused  upon  the 
future — the  past  with  Augustina  had  been  painful  to  me.  Oh, 
how  had  time  changed  everything  !  My  journey — I  was  four 
days  in  reaching  my  home — was  somewhat  tedious,  for  it  was 
without  any  adventure.  The  last  day  I  met  with  one  of  a  very 
pleasing  kind. 

My  servant  stopped  in  the  morning,  in  a  village,  before  an 
inn,  to  feed  his  horses.  I  went  into  the  house,  and  heard  the 
sound  of  quarreling.  The  host  and  a  half-drunken  hired  coach- 
man, whose  carriage  was  before  the  door,  were  disputing.  A 
young,  well-dressed  lady,  in  a  riding  habit,  sat  weeping  on  a 
seat  near  the  table.  The  difficulty  had  arisen  because  the  driver 
would  not  carry  the  lady  to  the  place  where  she  maintained  he 
had  agreed  to  take  her,  but  insisted  upon  going  to  a  little  town 
away  from  the  principal  road,  where  he  had  other  business.  He 
declared  that  he  had,  in  the  first  bargain,  agreed  to  carry  her  to 
this  place.  The  host  had  taken  the  part  of  the  young,  timid 
beauty.  On  hearing  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  minister  of  a 
village  an  hour's  ride  from  my  home,  and  but  little  out  of  my 
way  there,  I  soon  set  the  matter  right.  The  lady,  after  some 
hesitation,  (I  told  her  where  I  was  going  and  w7ho  I  was,)  yielded 
to  my  request,  and  became  my  companion. 

On  the  way  there  was  much  conversation.  She  had  a  sweet 
soft  voice,  the  purest,  most  angelic  innocence  in  all  her  looks. 
In  my  whole  life  no  ideal  pictured  beauty  had  I  ever  seen  with 
such  loving,  kind,  and  trusting  eyes.  I  learnt  she  was  called 
Adela.  Her  brother,  two  weeks  before,  had  carried  her  to  a 
small  town  where  she  had  been  visiting  at  the  Burgomaster's, 
her  father's  brother.  A  misunderstanding  had  doubtless  arisen 
in  giving  the  directions  to  the  stage-coachman,  to  which  I  was 
indebted  for  a  very  pleasant  day.  Adela  with  all  her  good 
humor  appeared  to  have  much  natural  wit.  She  was,  however, 
rather  too  timid.  When  I  reached  her  father's  village,  and  I 
gave  her  to  him,  a  stout,  active  old  man,  with  what  ecstacy  did 
she  throw  her  arms  about  his  neck.  I  almost  wished  myself  her 
father.  Then  appeared  for  the  first  time  her  natural  and  true 
manner.  I  was  not  able  to  stay  long,  notwithstanding  the  wor- 
thy pastor  besought  me  to  do  so.  I  promised,  however,  to  re- 
new my  visit ;  which,  however,  I  did  not  very  soon.  I  forgot 
it  between  business  and  amusement. . 


r'8 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 


At  a  ball,  about  half  a  year  after,  I  saw  among  the  dancers 
another  lady — for  in  the  thirty-first  year  of  an  unmarried  man, 
ladies  become  of  the  greatest  importance,  one  trembles  more 
and  more  at  the  number  of  years-— I  saw,  as  I  remarked,  a  dan- 
cer that  might  be  called  incontestably  the  queen  of  all  the  beau- 
ties present.  The  young  men  fluttered  like  butterflies  about 
her.  It  warmed  my  heart,  if  the  eyes  of  the  pretty  Sylphide 
sometimes  turned  toward  me  ;  and  to  my  astonishment  that  hap- 
pened often.  But  at  last  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  seen  this 
lovely  figure  in  some  company  before,  perhaps  in  the  city,  at 
Augustina's.  I  asked  my  neighbor  who  she  was.  Heavens  ! 
it  was  Adela !  very  different,  certainly,  in  her  ball  dress  from 
herself  in  her  riding  veil.  As  she  went  to  rest  after  the  last 
dance,  I,  a  butterfly  of  thirty-one,  approached  the  young  lady, 
and  she  was  so  kind  as  to  recognize  her  traveling  companion. 
We  danced.  I  inquired  after  the  .health  of  her  father,  regretted 
that  business  had  prevented  me  from  visiting  him— -an  exaggera- 
tion, perhaps,  but  before  such  an  angel  one  must  wash  himself 
clean.  I  promised  myself  soon  the  pleasure  of  a  visit,  with  a 
pleasant  freedom.  She  assured  me  a  visit  from  me  would  give 
her  father  great  pleasure. 

The  ball  caused  a  great  revolution  in  me.  The  President  of 
the  criminal  Court  became  again  a  poet.  I  could  not  sleep  for 
the  whole  night  long;  I  saw  nothing  but  celestial  glances, 
dancing  seraphim,  and  Adela  floating  between  them.  I  won- 
dered that  so  lovely,  so  amiable,  so  bewitching  a  maiden  had 
not  yet  found  a  husband,  Her  father,  they  say,  is  as  worthy 
as  she  is  beautiful :  but,  alas,  he  has  not  much  wealth  !  Oh,  the 
fools  !  After  a  few  days  I  went  to  visit  the  minister—repeated 
the  visit  from  week  to  week.  Soon  I  was  considered  as  a  friend 
of  the  family  ;  Adela  would  even  reproach  me  if  I  staid  away 
beyond  the  usual  day,  and  once  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes 
when  I  pretended  that  she  would  prefer  I  should  not  come  so 
often.  We  quarreled  sometimes  for  the  sake  of  making  up 
again,  and  once  in  the  course  of  the  reconciliation  I  gave  her  a 
kiss,  which  did  not  renew  the  quarrel.  She  was  silent  and  her 
cheeks  glowed  with  the  deepest  red.  In  short  I  loved  and  was 
beloved.  The  worthy  father  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said  : 
"  You  have  no  treasure  with  her  but  love,  virtue,  and  economy ; 
but  he  who  knows  how  to  value  these,  has  more  than  a  ton  of  gold." 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 


99 


With  the  first  flowers  of  spring,  I  wove  the  bridal  wreath  for 
my  Adela.  Her  father  himself  blessed  our  union  before  the 
altar  of  his  village  church.  And  now  by  the  side  of  my  noble 
little  wife,  I  was  the  happiest  of  the  happy. 

In  time  we  saw  ourselves  surrounded  by  blooming  children— 
angels  of  love— -who  united  us  more  tenderly  to  each  other. 
Adela  became  more  and  more  lovely  every  day;  a  young 
mother  is  certainly  more  lovely  than  the  most  beautiful  girl. 
The  pure  soul  of  Adela  elevated  my  own  ideas  to  a  point  they 
had  never  reached  before.  Man  is  never  entirely  happy,  until 
he  has  the  courage  to  be  virtuous.  Before  my  marriage,  I  had 
only  thought  of  saving  and  amassing  wealth ;  but  when  some 
years  of  wedded  life  had  passed,  Adela's  excellent  management 
had  made  me  feel  that  if  I  were  to  lose  all  I  was  worth,  I  could 
never  be  unhappy  while  Adela  and  my  children  were  left  to  me. 

I  now  found  that  my  departed  father  was  entirely  right  in 
what  he  said  when  dissuading  me  from  my  pursuit  of  Augus- 
tina,  in  regard  to  the  relative  age  of  a  husband  and  wife.  For, 
when  I  had  reached  my  fortieth  year,  and  Adela  her  thirtieth, 
and  we  had  children  of  six  and  eight  years  old,  frolicking  about 
us,  Adela  was  still  a  handsome  woman,  who  might  have  made 
conquests.  Augustina,  on  the  contrary,  had  arrived  at  a 
matronly  age. 

I  seldom  heard  from  the  latter.  We  ourselves,  never  wrote 
to  each  other.  I  heard  sometimes  from  strangers,  that  she  was 
somewhat  faded,  but  that  she  was  surrounded  by  a  coterie  of 
young  men,  particularly  poets  and  artists,  to  whom  her  open 
table  was  very  agreeable.  Then  I  learned  that  her  husband 
was  dead,  and  the  poets  who  formed  her  court,  were  middle- 
aged  enthusiasts,  and  mystics,  protestant  catholics,  and  that 
Augustina  herself  was  much  given  to  romancing,  and  some  of 
her  poetical  effusions  had  graced  the  last  Almanac  of  the  Muses. 
At  the  same  time  in  which  I  received  a  new  order  from  the 
Minister  to  visit  the  court,  I  also  had  a  letter  from  Augustina, 
consulting  me  on  a  lawsuit  in  which  she  had  become  involved 
with  some  of  the  relatives  of  her  late  husband,  and  requesting 
my  advice  and  presence  in  the  affair.  I  was  glad  that  my  ap- 
proaching visit  to  the  city  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  comply 
with  her  request. 

I  was  forty,  Augustina  the  same.    She  could  not  be  so  dan- 


100 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 


gerous  to  me  as  she  was  ten  years  before.  This  time  I  went, 
the  second  day  after  my  arrival  in  the  city,  without  any  heart- 
beating,  to  her  house.  I  had  sent  before  to  know  what  time 
she  would  receive  me,  because  I  had  been  told  she  was  seldom 
alone,  being  generally  surrounded  by  fashionable  poets,  listening 
to  or  reading  romantic  jingle,  talking  religious  mysticism,  or  at  the 
card  table  with  ancient  ladies  and  gentlemen— -for  play  had  be- 
come her  passion.  Her  former  friends,  male  and  female,  whom 
I  had  seen  about  ten  years  before,  had  fallen  off  from  her,  for 
they  were  no  longer  sufficient  for  her.  She  was  known  through- 
out the  city  for  her  venomous  tongue,  was  at  enmity  with  every- 
body, and  if  one  wished  to  know  the  city  news,  Madame  Von 
Winter  was  the  person  to  visit.  This  I  had  heard  from  two  of 
the  former  friends  of  Augustina,  whom  ten  years  before  I  used 
to  meet  at  her  house.  Hum— -thought  I— -but  these  good  friends 
are  also  ten  years  older,  and  perhaps  have  themselves  some  dis- 
position to  slander,  or,  as  they  call  it  in  the  city,  scandal. 

It  was  a  summer  evening,  and  as  I  entered  Augustina's  house, 
the  servant  told  me  her  lady  was  with  company  in  the  garden. 
I  went ;— -ah  !  the  well-known  garden  of  my  childhood  !  For 
the  sake  of  affording  the  subject  for  a  little  joke  with  Augus- 
tina, I  wore  her  gold  ring  which  she  had,  twenty  years  before, 
given  me  in  exchange  for  the  pewter  one.  Now  the  garden  and 
the  ring,  the  Chinese  temple  before  me,  I  could  not  remain 
entirely  unmoved.  "  Is  your  lady  alone  ?"  I  said  to  the  servant 
on  the  way. 

"  No,  she  has  company,  only  a  few  persons." 

I  entered  the  temple.  There  sat  at  two  tables,  two  parties, 
engaged  so  deeply  in  playing  cards,  that  they  hardly  saw  me. 
I  recognized  Augustina.  Oh  !  all  powerful  Time  !  how  changed  ! 
No,  there  was  no  danger  now.  I  reflected  with  delight  on  my 
Adela. 

Augustina  was  so  engrossed  in  play,  that  she  only  saluted 
me,  and  begged  me  to  excuse  her  a  moment,  until  she  could 
finish  the  game.  When  this  was  over,  she  arose,  overpowered 
me  with  civil  speeches  and  questions,  ord3red  refreshments  for 
me  and  offered  me  cards.  I  declined  this,  as  I  did  not  under- 
stand the  game. 

"  In  heaven's  name,"  said  she,  "  then  how  do  you  kill  time, 
if  you  do  not  play  cards?  it  seems  unaccountable  in  a  man  of 
your  spirit." 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 


101 


She  resumed  her  play  ;  the  game  was  faro.  The  banker  had 
great  luck  ;  all  the  money  of  the  players  soon  lay  before  him. 
Every  passion  here  shone  out  in  the  burning  cheeks,  the  piercing 
eyes,  the  compressed  lips.  The  banker  was  radiant  with  plea- 
sure. 

"  I  have  stripped  you  all  quickly,"  said  he.  "  We  were  speak- 
ing just  now,  of  my  very  costly  diamond;"  and  he  displayed  a 
ring  on  his  finger.  "  I  will  stake  it  in  a  lottery  against  all  the 
rings  in  the  company." 

Eagerly  and  with  longing  eyes  they  all  viewed  the  diamond. 
They  accepted  the  proposal.    Madam  Von  Winter  said : 

"  Rings  trouble  me  at  cards ;  T  have  none  on."  But  she 
looked  at  me,  "  apropos,  my  friend,  you  are  very  kind,  and  will 
lend  yours  for  the  moment." 

Surprised  at  the  request,  I  drew  off  Augustina's  ring,  and 
reached  it  to  her.  "  You  see,  my  lady,  it  is  yours  ;  you  may 
remember  it." 

She  looked  hastily  at  it  it,  and  saying,  "  So  much  the  better," 
threw  it  into  the  pool  with  the  rest,  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the 
diamond.  But  the  rings  were  all  lost.  The  banker  won.  Even 
the  holy  ring  of  our  first  love  was  gone,  and  on  the  very  spot 
where  in  tears  I  had  received  it.  Oh,  all  powerful  Time,  how 
dost  thou  overturn  everything  ! 

We  went  to  supper.  The  guests  were  in  good  humor; 
Augustina  forced  herself  to  appear  gay,  which  gave  to  her  fea- 
tures a  disagreeable  contortion.  The  wine  was  applied  to,  to 
raise  the  tone  of  conversation ;  it  became  more  gay,  but  not 
more  wise.  The  news  of  the  city  was  discussed  ;  their  acquaint- 
ances and  the  secret  histories  of  thern  passed  in  review.  The 
conversation  did  not  lack  wit  so  much  as  charity,  and  to  my 
great  grief,  Augustina  was  the  most  full  in  wicked  remarks. 
She  did  not  hesitate,  sometimes,  to  bear  hard  upon  her  own 
guests.  Ah,  could  I  have  thought  the  adored,  angelic  being  of 
fourteen  would  have  reached  this  point  ?  I  felt  weary  and  dis- 
gusted ;  and  when,  after  supper,  the  cards  were  resumed,  I  took 
my  leave. 

It  distressed  me  to  find  myself  in  the  city,  or  rather  to  have 
seen  Augustina  so  changed.  I  visited  her  once  or  twice  in  re- 
ference to  the  progress  of  her  lawsuit,  but  I  did  not  find  her 
more  agreeable  than  at  first.    In  spite  of  the  wrinkles  in  her 


102  ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 

face,  she  was  not  willing  to  be  thought  old.  She  freely  applied 
rouge.  I  acted  as  if  I  did  not  perceive  it.  She  now  and  then 
appeared  willing  to  talk  sentimentally  of  our  former  tender  re- 
lation to  each  other,  but  it  was  disgusting  to  me.  When  I  once 
let  fall  a  word  of  her  being  forty  years  old,  she  looked  at  me 
with  astonishment. 

"  I  believe  you  are  dreaming,  Mr.  President,"  said  she, 
"  your  memory  fails  before  its  time.  When  we  were  first  ac- 
quainted, you  were  ten  and  I  five  years  old.  I  was  still  playing 
with  my  dolls,  I  remember  it  perfectly.  A  girl  of  ten  years 
thinks  no  longer  of  her  dolls,  but  on  more  serious  matters. 
Therefore  I  am  now  five  and  thirty ;  and,  between  ourselves,  it 
is  not  impossible  that  I  should  marry  again.  A  very  excellent 
man,  one  of  our  first  poets,  has  been  long  seeking  for  my  hand. 
All  the  poems  to  the  Madonna,  to  the  saints — all  his  holy 
legends,  breathe  the  sweet  fire  of  pure  affection  for  me." 

I  gave  my  good  wishes  to  the  success  of  "  the  sweet  fire  of 
pure  affection,"  and  was  glad  to  leave  the  neighborhood  of  the 
court,  and  return  again  to  my  Adela  and  her  children. 

One  does  not  realize  he  is  old  until  he  sees  the  ravages  of 
time  in  the  well-known  faces  of  his  youthful  friends.  I  returned 
from  the  city  older  than  I  went  there.  But  as  I  embraced 
again  my  true  and  faithful  Adela,  and  my  children  clamoring 
about  me,  I  unpacked  first  this  thing  and  then  that,  which  I  had 
brought  as  presents  from  the  city ;  then  I  grew  young  again. 

"  In  the  course  of  time,  many  go  before  us  into  the  better  and 
enduring,  and  higher  world  of  spirits,  and  our  hearts  bleed  for 
them.  But  even  these  separations  make  life  and  the  world  more 
important  to  us ;  they  join  the  Here  and  There  more  firmly  in 
our  minds,  and  carry  something  more  spiritual,  more  exalted, 
in  our  thoughts,  wishes  and  actions.  The  child  is  well  pleased 
with  a  flower,  a  colored  stone,  a  narrow  play-ground,  and  grieves 
himself  little  about  the  pursuits  of  grown-up  men.  The  young 
man  and  the  young  maiden  press  out  into  the  broad  world  and 
the  free  air.  The  nursery  becomes  too  narrow  for  them.  They 
would  have  something  more,  they  win,  they  lose,  they  strive, 
they  never  are  satisfied.  They  would  gain  all  the  good  of  the 
earth  ;  at  last  even  this  is  not  enough.    With  years,  life  grows 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE 


103 


broader,  and  our  views  of  life.  To  the  child,  the  flower  and  the 
colored  stone  become  too  little ;  to  the  man  and  woman  the  en- 
joyment of  all  honor,  all  wealth,  indifferent ;  the  earth  has  too 
little  for  the  spirit — it  stretches  out  its  arms  into  the  universe- 
it  demands  and  it  receives  eternity." 

These  were  the  words  which  the  respected  father  of  Adela 
said  to  us,  on  his  death-bed.  We  wept,  as  we  stood  over  the 
departed,  but  we  loved  him  with  a  still  more  earnest,  holy  love, 
which  sanctified  ourselves.  Adela  and  I  lived  a  higher  life, 
since  there  was  no  barrier  between  us  and  eternity,  and  we  had 
something  to  love  there  as  here. 

The  purest  of  all  joys  comes  to  us  from  our  children.  I  ac- 
companied my  eldest  son  to  the  University  ;  and  it  was  the  most 
agreeable  surprise  to  Adela  and  myself,  when  I  received,  on  my 
fiftieth  birth-day,  the  royal  appointment  to  the  easy  and  honor- 
able office  which  I  now  hold.  This  office  made  it  necessary  for 
me  to  live  in  the  city  ;  and  from  there  to  the  University,  where 
my  son  was  pursuing  his  studies,  was  only  a  moderate  day's  ride. 
We  were  together  as  often  as  we  wished. 

Adela,  indeed,  left  with  regret  her  native  city ;  but  of  the 
court  residence  she  had  heard  often,  and  it  had  a  charm  for  her 
maternal  heart,  in  its  proximity  to  her  first-born  son.  She  was 
in  her  fortieth  year----no  longer  the  ideal  beauty  which  I  thought 
her,  when,  at  our  first  meeting,  I  saw  her  beside  me  in  the  car- 
riage ;  but  her  features  had  acquired  more  exalted  charms,  her 
form  had  added  dignity  to  grace.  The  heart  of  Adela  had  re- 
tained its  youth.  I  loved  her  with  the  first  love.  Her  lovely 
face,  distorted  by  no  passion  in  her  youth,  needed  no  false  color- 
ing to  make  it  charming. 

She  knew  my  early  relations  with  Augustina,  and  when  we 
came  to  the  city,  she  was  very  curious  to  become  acquainted 
with  my  first  love. 


Three  or  four  months  passed  away  before  I  visited  Madam 
"Von  Winter,  for  I  felt  little  inclination  to  do  so.  We  were  told 
she  no  longer  received  company,  that  she  lived  extremely  retired, 
and  had  become  in  her  later  years  as  avaricious  as  she  had  be- 
fore been  extravagant.  This  change  of  feeling  might  be  con- 
sidered as  a  consequence  of  her  passion  for  gaming,  to  which 
she  gave  herself  up,  when  she  was  no  longer  young  enough  for 


104 


ERAS  IN  WOMAN'S  LIFE. 


gallantry.  She  was  most  frequently  found  at  mass,  for,  some 
years  before,  excited  by  the  romantic  poets  of  the  fashionable 
school,  she  had  thrown  herself  into  the  bosom  of  the  only  true 
church,  and  had  become  a  catholic. 

When  I  visited  her  now  for  the  first  time,  I  was  conducted 
again  into  the  garden.  As  I  passed  through  the  house,  I  had 
seen  pictures  of  the  saints  hanging  on  the  dusty  walls.  The 
garden  was  like  a  wilderness,  and  thorns  grew  where  Augustina 
and  I  once  enjoyed  the  marriage  feast.  The  acacias  had  been 
cut  down,  out  of  economy,  to  make  firewood.  The  Chinese 
temple  had  lost  all  its  outward  ornaments,  and  was  covered  with 
honest  Dutch  tiles ;  little  pointed  gothic  windows  of  colored 
glass,  like  the  church  windows  of  the  times  of  romance,  and  a 
cross  on  the  top  of  the  roof,  made  the  little  house  resemble  a 
chapel. 

And  so  it  was.  As  I  entered,  I  saw  an  altar,  a  crucifix,  and 
an  eternal  lamp.  Madame  "Winter,  fifty  years  old,  clad  in  a  very 
simple  matronly  dress,  just  risen  from  her  devotions,  came  to 
meet  me,  her  rosary  in  her  hand,  and  the  murmur  of  prayer  on 
her  lips. 

I  stood  still  before  her.  She  knew  me  and  seemed  pleased. 
I  could  not  conquer  my  feelings,  but  without  moving  I  took  her 
hand,  and  with  moistened  eyes  pointed  to  the  chapel.  "  Ah, 
Augustina,"  cried  I,  "  when  the  light  vine-bower  stood  here, 
when  we  in  happy  childhood  exchanged  our  pewter  rings — 
when,  ten  years  after,  lover  and  beloved,  we  gave  and  received 
the  first  kiss  of  our  innocent  love,  and  vowed  before  heaven — 

"  I  beseech  you  think  no  more  of  such  vain  children's  play," 
interrupted  she. 

"  Ah,  Augustina,  it  was  not  well  to  change  the  simple  vine- 
bower  into  the  splendid  boudoir ;  still  worse  that  I  should  see 
the  golden  ring  of  love  thrown  away  at  the  faro-table ;  and  now 
a  chapel !" 

"  Sir,"  said  Madam  Winter,  "  we  are  cured  at  last  of  the 
intoxication  of  the  world  and  its  vain  pleasures.  You  wound 
my  heart  by  such  recollections.  If  your  salvation  is  dear  to  you, 
follow  my  example,  learn  to  forsake  a  false  world,  and  call  upon 
the  saints  in  heaven  for  their  intercession." 

"  When  I  returned  home,  I  said  to  Adela  :  "  No,  dearest,  we 
will  not  go  to  see  her.    I  no  longer  know  her." 


THE  SLANDERER. 


.  "  The  ignoble  mind 
Loves  ever  to  assail  with  secret  blow, 
The  loftier,  purer  beings  of  their  kind." 

There  is  a  monitor  within  every  human  breast,  that  teaches 
our  just  relation  to  each  other.  Though  it  be  drowned  at  times 
by  the  governing  propensity  to  calumniate  and  vilify,  it  never- 
theless had  its  being  there,  and  in  the  sober  and  reflective 
moments  asserts  its  moral,  and  calms  the  raging,  riotous  pas- 
sions within.  Man's  inhumanity  to  man,  is  perhaps  the  most 
mysterious  element  of  our  natural  perverseness.  Being  all  alike 
prone  to  deviate  from  the  right  even  when  zealously  aiming  at 
moral  rectitude,  it  is  strange,  surpassingly  strange,  that  we  are 
often  most  deficient  in  the  most  essential  trait  of  character — 
Charity  ;  but  such  is  the  fact. 

When  we  say  that  our  own  experimental  knowledge  of  the 
weakness  of  our  nature  and  its  liability  to  error  when  best 
guarded,  should  teach  us  to  deal  charitably  with  our  less  for- 
tunate fellows,  the  sentiment  will  find  a  ready  response  in  every 
rational  mind.  But  how  sadly,  deplorably  deficient  in  all  the 
nobler  impulses  of  our  nature,  must  they  be,  who,  prompted  by 
malice,  or  gored  by  envy,  stab  at  the  fair  name  of  the  innocent, 
and  delight  in  poring  over  the  mangled  reputations  of  those 
whose  only  crime  is  that  they  have  been  marked  as  victims  by 
the  scandals  of  the  community.  How  lamentably  at  variance 
with  all  that  should  characterise  weak,  sinful,  fallen  man.  How 
boldly,  unblushingly  confronting  all  the  heavenly  precepts  given 
us  to  redeem  our  fatal  apostacy !  How  insolently  defying  all 
motives  of  right ;  how  grossly  perverting  a  nature  steeped  in 
sin  and  perverseness  since  it  had  a  being  !    But,  strange  as  it 


106 


THE  SLANDERER. 


may  seem,  there's  not  a  community  can  boast  of  exemption  from 
the  slanderer. 

If  there  is  one  crime  in  the  catalogue  of  human  crimes  that  is 
wholly  without  excuse,  it  is  slander.  The  impetuosity  of  youth 
and  the  ravages  of  years,  alike  refuse  to  plead  in  extenuation  of 
this  blistering  stain  upon  the  human  character.  Even  the  de- 
liberate murderer  has  a  plausible  motive ;  the  thief  is  lured  by 
the  hope  of  ill-gotten  gain,  and  almost  every  species  of  human 
depravity  as  manifested  in  unkind  actions  to  our  fellows,  offer 
its  reward ;  but  the  slanderer,  unbidden  by  necessity,  and  un- 
requited save  by  the  keen  remorse  of  a  guilty  conscience,  rushes 
blindly,  madly  along  in  the  work  of  human  degradation.  There 
is  no  character  pure  enough,  there  is  none  degraded  enough,  to 
escape  the  withered  blast  of  slander.  There  are  no  virtues  can 
elevate  the  innocent  above  its  pestilential  breath ;  there  are 
no  vices  yet  learned  that  can  sink  their  votaries  beneath  its  gro- 
veling wanderings — but  all,  all  from  the  extremes  of  virtue  to 
the  extremes  of  vice,  are  embraced  in  its  theatre  of  operations. 

"  Evil  for  evil,"  is  a  ready  dictate  of  our  perverted  nature.  It 
seems  to  be  an  inherent  principle  implanted  within  us,  that  grows 
with  our  growth,  and  ripens  with  our  years,  unless  subdued  by 
the  influence  of  a  proper  education.  It  accords  with  the  impulse^ 
of  our  untutored  passions,  and  pleads  its  right  to  supremacy, 
with  a  boldness  and  perseverance  that  but  too  often  prevail. 
But  the  human  breast  in  which  rankles  the  elements  of  slander, 
and  from  which  its  polluted  and  polluting  breath  emits,  is  a 
stranger  even  to  that  poor  charity  that  withholds  evil  until  in- 
juries call  to  be  avenged.  It  glories  not  unless  glutted  with  the 
anguish  of  its  victims,  or  crimsoned  by  the  blood  of  the  reputa- 
tions it  has  plunged  into  unmerited  obloquy  and  shame. 


An  injury  is  the  most  severely  felt,  when  it  is  received  from 
a  person  we  love.  The  dagger  of  Brutus  gave  the  deepest 
wound  to  the  feelings  and  to  the  heart  of  Caesar.  The  sight  of 
Brutus  unnerved  the  arm  of  the  Emperor ;  and  "  thou,  too, 
Brutus,"  were  the  last  words  that  faltered  on  his  tongue. 


THE  BIRD  MESSENGERS. 


The  following  lines  were  suggested  by  a  tradition  of  the  Seneca  Indians, 
who  are  said  to  have  had  a  practice  of  bringing  birds  to  the  grave  of  their  dear 
departed  friends,  and  kissing  them  many  times,  release  them  to  fly  away, 
believing  that  they  will  not  stop  till  they  come  to  the  spirit-home  of  tbe 
loved  and  lost. 

I. 

One  fondly  loved  and  dearly  cherished, 

Death  has  removed  ;  she  early  perished 
And  passed  into  the  sky  of  spirit  life, — 

There,  far  from  sight  of  outward  vision, 

She  dwells  in  light,  on  fields  elysian, 
Beyond  the  touch  of  pain — above  all  strife. 

II. 

So  pure  her  bliss,,  so  sweet  her  joy, 

Return  to  this  dull  world's  annoy, 
Would  fill  her  free  and  happy  soul  with  pain ; 

Stay,  angel  one,  in  holy  heaven  !— 

When  life  is  done,  it  may  be  given 
To  us  to  rise  and  dwell  with  thee  again. 

HI. 

We  will  not  call  thy  spirit  back, 

But  pray  that  all  may  choose  the  track 
That  thou  in  humble  meekness  ever  trod, 

That  rises  still,  through  faith  and  love, 

Above  all  ill— all  sin  above — 
And  leadeth  homeward  to  our  Father,  God. 

IV. 

Yet  will  we  send  love-freighted  birds 

With  thoughts  unpenned,  nor  shaped  to  words; 
Dear  birds,  half  smothered  with  affection's  kisses ; 

And  bid  them  fly,  on  tireless  wing, 

Far  up  the  sky,  and  sweetly  sing, 
As  unto  her  they  bear  our  love's  caresses. 


108 


TO  AUGUSTA. 


V. 

'They  shall  not  rest,  nor  fold  the  wing, 

Till  to  that  blest,  dear  one,  they  sing, 
In  the  "  Great  Spirit's,"  home  of  endless  life  ; 

And  to  her  bear  the  love  we  keep 

For  all  who  dare  the  untried  deep 
Of  that  eternal  state  with  spirit-mystery  rife. 

VI. 

Then  may  we  soon  follow  their  way, 

And  in  the  noon  of  God-lit  day 
Forever  find  a  sweet  and  bird-like  rest ; 

Each  power  awake,  each  sin-pnlse  still, 

Forever  take  the  glad  soul's  fill 
Of  joy  unearthly  with  the  ever  blest. 

Weamanset. 


TO  AUGUSTA. 


My  gentle  friend,  I  love  thee  well, 
Far  more  than  idle  words  can  tell ; 
And  I  will  love  thee  ever,  too, 
With  feelings  that  are  deep  and  true. 

'Tis  true,  I  have  not  known  thee  long, 
Yet  cords  of  love  have  bound  me  strong— 
'Tis  sweet  to  love  one's  dearest  friend, 
And  feel  'twill  last  till  life  shall  end. 

And  if  thy  friendship,  too,  shall  last, 
Though  time  and  years  roll  slowly  past ; 
One  simple  boon  I'll  ask  of  thee — 
That  thou  wilt  sometimes  think  of  me. 


CRUELTY.  Vs.  KINDNESS; 

OR,   THE  KEY  FOUND. 


BY  THE  LATE  JOHN  JNMAN. 


Yisiting  one  of  the  state  prisons,  a  few  years  since,  in 
company  with  the  governor  or  superintendent,  I  was  much 
interested  by  his  remarks  upon  several  of  the  convicts,  their 
manifestations  of  character,  and  the  effect  upon  them  of  the 
discipline  to  which  they  were  subjected.  Some  were  cheer- 
ful at  labor,  and  appeared  to  find  in  it  a  relief  from  painful 
thought ;  others  submitted  to  it  patiently,  but  yet  with  evi- 
dence that  it  was  irksome  to  then-  feelings  or  their  habits — 
it  was  endured  only,  not,  welcomed.  Others  again  were 
always  reluctant,  sometimes  refractory  at  their  toil ;  their 
faces  wore  a  sullen  expression,  and  they  contrived  a  thou- 
sand expedients  to  retard  as  much  as  possible  the  progress 
of  their  work,  yet  without  exposing  themselves  to  punish- 
ment by  actual  neglect  or  evidently  wilful  perversion  of 
duty.  The  conversation  of  the  governor,  suggested  by  these 
varieties  of  conduct  and  disposition,  had  an  intrinsic  inter- 
est, resulting  from  the  clearness  and  sagacity  of  his  views 
in  relation  to  the  varying  elements  with  which  he  had  to* 
deal.  I  soon  discovered  that  he  was  a  quick  and  shrewd 
observer  of  men's  minds  ;  naturally  endowed  with  a  pene- 
trating glance  at  the  inward,  sharpened  and  perfected  by 
long  practice,  until  it  afforded  him  a  knowledge  that  seemed 
almost  intuitive.  I  perceived,  too,  by  the  demeanor  of  the 
convicts  in  his  presence,  that  he  exercised  over  them  that 
quiet  authority  which  superior  power  of  intellect  always'com- 
mands.  Their  manner  toward  him — their  very  aspect  and 
movement  when  he  was  among  them — though  indicating 
neither  servile  fear,  nor  that,  shrinking  avoidance  which  is 


124  CRUELTY,  VS.  KINDNESS. 

generated  by  habitual  harshness  and  severity — told  more 
plainly  than  words  could  do  that  they  knew  him  as  their 
ruler ;  as  one  whose  vigilance  they  could  not  elude  or  his 
authority  resist,  while  yet  theyhad  nothing  to  apprehend 
from  wanton  severity  or  capricious  tyranny.  He  had  not 
been  very  long  in  the  prison,  and  report  said  that  his  prede- 
cessor, though  an  upright  and  well-meaning  man,  had  been 
so  lacking  in  decision  and  tenacity  of  purpose,  that  under 
his  control  the  institution  had  become  very  much  disorga- 
nized ;  but,  whatever  the  faults  of  the  previous  administra- 
tion had  been,  and  however  injurious  they  had  proved  to 
the  moral  and  physical  discipline  required  in  such  a  con- 
dition of  society,  I  needed  not  the  evidence  of  general  com- 
mendation to  assure  me  that  under  its  present  head  the  prison 
was  governed  and  controlled  with  perhaps  as  near  an  ap- 
proach as  is  possible  to  the  difficult  attainment  of  the  two 
desired  objects  in  all  penal  institutions — punishment  and 
reformation — punishment,  for  the  good  of  the  community 
at  large,  as  a  means  of  deterring  others  from  the  commis- 
sion of  crime,  and  reformation,  for  the  good  of  the  individual 
criminal. 

In  the  course  of  our  progress  through  the  various  wards 
and  workshops,  the  governor  requested  me,  as  we  were 
approaching  one  large  apartment,  to  take  especial  notice  of 
the  person  whom  he  should  call  when  we  had  entered,  and 
from  whom  he  should  ask  an  explanation  of  the  processes 
carried  on  in  that  part  of  the  prison.  I  of  course  complied  ; 
and  soon  found  myself  listening  to  the  intelligent  remarks 
of  a  man  apparently  thirty  or  thirty-five  years  old,  well 
made,  of  middle  height,  and  strongly  marked  though  far 
from  unhandsome  features.  His  eyes,  of  a  rich,  bright 
hazel,  were  yet  singularly  soft  and  mild  in  their  expression, 
contrasting  remarkably  enough  with  that  of  his  mouth, 
which  betokened  an  uncommon  degree  of  energy  and  firm- 
ness ;  the  lips,  though  well  formed,  closing  upon  each  other 
with  a  fixedness  than  which  nothing  could  more  plainly 
indicate  strong  will  and  self-reliance.  The  character  of  the 
face  and  head  generally  was  good — such  as  to  please  both 


CRUELTY,   VS.  KINDNESS. 


125 


the  physiognomist  and  the  phrenologist,  who  would  respec- 
tively pronounce  the  features  and  the  developments  at 
tractive. 

What  struck  me  particularly,  however,  were  the  appear- 
ances of  personal  attachment  to  the  governor  that  rather 
escaped  from  him  occasionally  than  were  exhibited.  They 
were  perceptible  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  in  his  look  of  affec- 
tionate respect,  in  the  air  of  delighted  but  deferential  in- 
terest with  which  he  listened  when  the  governor  addressed 
him ;  perhaps  more  than  all,  in  the  eager  alacrity  with 
which  he  hastened  to  afford  any  explanation  requested  by 
the  latter  on  my  behalf ;  for  the  room  in  which  we  were, 
was  occupied  by  machines  of  various  kinds,  employed  in 
the  formation  or  preparation  of  different  fabrics ;  and  from 
the  tenor  of  the  questions  addressed  to  him,  and  of  his  an- 
swers, I  judged  that  the  man  of  whom  I  speak  was  to  some 
extent  charged  with  their  management  or  superintendence. 
At  all  events,  he  appeared  to  understand  them  thoroughly, 
and  his  explanations  of  their  nature,  their  construction,  and 
performances,  were  singularly  intelligent  and  satisfactory, 
adding  much  to  the  interest  with  which  I  had  been  inspired 
by  his  appearance  and  manner. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  after  we  had  left  him  and  were 
on  our  way  to  another  part  of  the  prison,  I  inquired  with 
some  eagerness  whether  there  was  anything  peculiar  or 
remarkable  in  his  history  ;  and  the  answer  I  received  was 
substantially  as  follows  :  — 

'•That  man,  when  I  first  took  charge  of  the  prison,  was 
the  veriest  black  sheep  of  the  whole  flock.  His  sentence 
was  fourteen  years,  of  which  three  had  elapsed  ;  and  my 
predecessor,  when  he  turned  the  prisoners  over  to  me,  as- 
sured me  that  he  had  less  trouble  with  all  the  others  than 
with  him  ;  that  he  was  incorrigible  and  utterly  unmanage- 
able. The  utmost  severity  of  punishment  had  been  inflict- 
ed on  him  to  no  purpose  ;  neither  hunger,  nor  stripes,  n<^ 
the  shower,  nor  solitary  confinement,  nor  kindness,  noi 
expostulation,  had  any  effect  upon  his  indomitable  temper. 
His  sentence  was  for  an  aggravated  and  wanton  assault. 


126  CRUELTY,  VS.  KINDNESS. 

with  intent  to  kill,  which  he  barely  failed  to  accomplish ; 
and  this  was  but  the  last  of  several,  in  the  perpetration  of 
which  he  had  exhibited  a  ferocity,  a  recklessness,  and  despe- 
rate courage,  that  made  his  name  actually  a  terror  to  the 
\  police  as  well  as  to  the  frequenters  of  the  low  haunts  where 
he  was  generally  to  be  found.  The  same  violent  and  indomi- 
table spirit  he  had  exhibited  ever  since  his  arrival  at  the 
prison.  Coercion  seemed  only  to  harden  him,  and  gentle 
means  were  but  wasted  on  his  obduracy.  Work  he  would 
not,  except  at  intervals  when  he  was  in  the  humor.  His 
fellow-prisoners  stood  in  awe  of  him,  and  even  the  keepers 
were  reluctant  to  meddle  with  him,  three  of  them  having  at 
different  times  sustained  severe  personal  injury  at  his  hands 
in  attempts  to  subdue  his  refractory  spirit.  In  short,  accord- 
ing to  the  account  of  my  predecessor,  Harding — for  that 
is  his  name — was  more  like  a  wild  beast  than  a  human 
being,  and,  like  a  wild  beast,  ought  to  be  shut  up  in  a  cage 
where  he  could  do  no  mischief ;  to  use  the  expression  made 
use  of  to  me,  he  was  untameable  as  a  hyena,  and  deserved 
no  better  than  a  hyena's  treatment. 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  compliment  my  own  sagacity,  but 
I  will  say  that  I  could  not  help  doubting  the  entire  accuracy 
of  all  this.  I  had  had  plentiful  experience  of  refractory 
convicts  in  other  prisons — had  had  occasion  to  deal  with 
depraved  and  brutal  men  in  almost  every  conceivable  va- 
riety of  wickedness — and  I  had  never  yet  found  one  for 
whom  there  were  not  some  available  means  of  correction 
and  reformation,  if  we  could  but  find  them  out. 

"  This  man,  I  felt  confident,  had  a  heart — a  human  heart, 
with  true  sympathies  and  right  emotions — but  it  was  locked 
up,  and  nobody  had  been  able  to  discover  the  key  that 
should  lay  it  open.  Perhaps,  in  the  course  of  his  short  but 
violent  and  stormy  life — for  he  was  then  but  a  little  beyond 
the  age  of  legal  manhood — no  one  had  fallen  in  his  way 
who  would  have  been  willing  to  apply  the  key,  had  it  been 
in  his  possession.  I  could  easily  conceive  that  a  childhood 
and  youth  of  neglect  and  hardship,  without  sympathy, 
without  the  softening  influence  of  care  or  kindness,  without 


CRUELTY,  VS.  KINDNESS. 


127 


joys  or  pleasures  except  the  most  sensual  and  base,  might 
have  been  the  training  for  this  ferocious  manhood  of  brutal 
and  desperate  ferocity.  You  have  seen  Harding,  and  can 
understand  me  when  I  say,  that  his  features  seemed  even 
then  to  indicate  the  existence  of  better  elements  within  than 
were  believed  to  form  his  character.  I  felt  assured,  that 
with  a  countenance  so  befitting  a  man,  was  not  associated 
the  nature  of  a  beast ;  and  I  resolved  to  spare  no  pains  for 
the  education  and  development  of  that  nature  of  a  man 
which  I  believed  to  exist  beneath  his  outward  show  of 
heartlessness  and  depravity. 

"  My  first  step  was  to  watch  him  carefully,  yet  in  such 
a  way  as  not  to  excite  in  him  suspicions  of  my  observance. 
I  noted  needfully  his  actions,  his  manner,  his  countenance — 
at  work  and  at  meals,  in  the  chapel,  and  when  allowed  to 
exercise  in  the  prison  yard  ;  in  every  situation  which  brought 
him  to  view,  I  studied  his  appearance  and  bearing  with 
unremitting  vigilance.  Whether  it  was  that  report  of  my 
success  in  governing  other  prisons  had  reached  him  and 
produced  some  effect  of  apprehension  even  on  his  obdurate 
disposition,  or  that  he  felt  the  influence  of  the  quiet  but 
energetic  regularity  which  pervaded  the  prison,  I  know  not ; 
but  it  so  happened  that  for  some  weeks  he  was  unusually 
peaceable  and  diligent,  performing  his  tasks  in  the  work- 
shop well  and  cheerfully,  and  giving  no  annoyance  to  his 
fellow-prisoners ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  1  had  no 
occasion  to  hold  direct  communication  with  him.  I  was 
not  sorry  for  this,  as  it  gave  me  ample  time  for  the  watchful 
observance  to  which  I  have  alluded ;  and  perhaps  all  the 
results  I  could  expect  from  it  had  been  attained  when  at 
length  some  neglect  or  violation  of  duty  on  his  part  made  it 
proper  for  me  to  notice  him  personally.  I  was  careful, 
however,  not  to  engage  in  conversation  with  him — to  ask 
no  question — for  my  object  was  merely,  by*a  few  words  of 
admonition,  to  suggest  rather  than  announce  that  the  treat- 
ment he  might  expect  from  me  was  to  combine  the  resolute 
and  undeviating  firmness  of  control  with  the  kindness  of 
sympathizing  humanity.    I  wished  him  to  draw  this  infer- 


128 


CRUELTY,   VS.  KINDNESS. 


ence  from  my  manner  of  speaking — grave,  earnest,  indica- 
tive not  so  much  of  determination  to  be  obeyed  as  of  assu- 
rance that  to  be  disobeyed  was  impossible,  but  carefully 
divested  of  harshness  or  the  least  appearance  of  resentment. 
This  was  the  lesson  I  wished  him  to  receive  and  ponder;  and 
I  had  reason  to  believe  that  my  object  was  accomplished. 

"  But  I  will  not  take  up  your  time  by  going  into  the 
detail  of  my  various  experiments  upon  Harding,  and  their 
results.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  in  the  course  of  five  or  six 
months  I  became  convinced  of  the  truth  of  my  original  im- 
pression, that  there  was  something  more  and  better  in  him 
than  had  been  supposed  ;  but  as  yet  this  conviction  was 
the  only  good  fruit  of  my  endeavors.  He  was  still  wilful, 
intractable,  and  sometimes  fearfully  violent.  Punishment 
was  still  thrown  away  upon  him — and  so  sure  was  I  that 
it  even  aggravated  his  faults  of  temper,  that  I  regretted  the 
necessity  of  inflicting  it  for  the  sake  of  maintaining  the 
general  discipline  of  the  prison.  I  made  some  important 
discoveries,  however,  in  relation  to  the  course  of  early  life, 
which,  as  I  had  from  the  first  suspected,  had  been  largely 
instrumental  in  the  formation  of  his  character.  In  his  fu- 
rious moods  he  would  often  let  fall  expressions,  disjointed 
indeed,  but  capable  of  being  put  together  and  wrought  into 
a  connexion  full  of  significance.  They  generally  took  the 
form  of  maledictions  and  reproaches  upon  society — upon 
mankind  at  large — for  cruelty  and  injustice  of  which  he 
had  been  the  victim ;  and  from  them,  as  reported  to  me  by 
the  keepers,  I  gathered  that  his  father,  an  Englishman,  had 
been  transported  for  a  crime  of  which,  after  his  death  at 
Van  Dieman's  Land,  he  had  been  ascertained  to  be  innocent ; 
that  his  mother,  coming  to  America,  had  died  in  prison,  of 
a  jail  fever,  while  detained  as  a  witness  merely ;  and  that 
himself,  thus  left  an  orphan  when  little  more  than  a  child, 
had  struggled  on  to  manhood  through  penury,  and  suffering, 
and  evil  companionship,  and  temptations  of  the  coarsest 
and  most  debasing  kind,  such  as  are  but  too  much  incident 
to  the  career  of  indigent  and  neglected  orphanhood  in  the 
squalid  haunts  of  large  cities. 


CRUELTY,   VSi    KJ&J)tf£HS.  129 

"  I  ascertained,  moreover,  by  inquiries  of  the  police  in  the 
city  where  his  life  had  been  passed,  that  no  crime  had  ever 
been  alleged  against  him  except  those  acts  of  violence  which 
at  last  had  brought  him  to  the  prison.  He  had  figured 
repeatedly  in  the  annals  of  the  criminal  department  as  a 
rowdy,  a  ruffian,  a  leader  in  riots  and  aggravated  breaches 
of  the  peace — but  never  as  a  thief,  a  shop-lifter,  a  burglar, 
or  in  any  other  grade  of  felonious  rascality.  This  was 
encouraging  ;  and  still  more  so  were  accounts  that  reached 
me  of  several  instances  in  which  Harding  had  been  known 
to  exhibit  a  sort  of  rude  and  reckless  generosity,  not  out  of 
keeping  with  the  darker  features  of  his  character.  I  felt 
more  and  more  assured  that  there  must  be  a  way  of  reclaim- 
ing him ;  but  I  was  still  forced  to  acknowledge  that  as  yet 
I  had  made  little  or  no  substantial  progress  toward  the  dis- 
covery of  that  way. 

"  At  length,  however,  a  fortunate  accident  befriended  me. 
1  had  conceived  the  idea,  and  was  strongly  impressed  with 
its  truth,  that  if  Harding  could  be  made  to  feel  himself 
useful,  a  great  step  would  be  gained.  My  theory  was,  that 
want  of  self-respect — the  failing  of  a  generous  nature,  per- 
verted by  circumstances — was  the  root  of  his  depravity ; 
and  that  if  he  could  be  induced  to  believe  that  there  was 
good  in  him,  capable  of  being  called  into  action  profitable 
to  his  fellow-men,  this  belief  might  without  much  difficulty 
be  nurtured  so  as  to  bring  forth  abundant  fruit. 

"  It  happened,  one  day,  that  he  was  called  in  to  assist, 
with  others,  under  the  direction  of  the  engineer,  in  putting 
together  a  new  piece  of  machinery  ;  that  is,  he  and  the 
other  convicts,  three  or  four  of  them,  were  required  to  lift 
and  place  in  certain  positions  various  parts  of  the  engine, 
while  the  constructor  adjusted  them  and  applied  the  fasten- 
ings. I  observed  that  Harding — who  had  been  for  some 
days  in  a  remarkably  good  humor — bestowed  much  atten^ 
tion  upon  the  putting  together  of  the  machinery,  and  seemed 
to  be  interested  in  its  construction  and  object,  as  one  who 
understood  them.  While  the  others  merely  did  what  was 
required  of  them,  with  careless  indifference,  his  eyes  closely 


130 


CRUELTY,  VS.  KINDNESS. 


followed  the  movement  of  the  engineer ;  and  I  noticed  that 
when  the  latter  two  or  three  times  made  a  trial  movement 
of  a  principal  wheel,  Harding  quickly  turned  his  attention 
to  another  part  of  the  machine,  where  the  effect  was  to  be 
looked  for  ;  showing  that  he  comprehended  the  principle  of 
its  action. 

u  My  plan  was  quickly  formed  ;  and  circumstances  took 
just  the  turn  most  favorable  to  its  application.  There  was 
something  wrong  in  the  engine  ;  something  had  been  omit- 
ted or  misplaced  in  its  construction,  and  it  did  not  work  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  engineer.  Repeated  trials  were  made 
to  remedy  the  defect,  whatever  it  was,  but  still  the  same 
check  occurred  when  the  wheels  were  put  in  motion.  You 
may  suppose  that  I  watched  Harding  more  vigilantly  than 
I  did  the  machine,  and  I  was  delighted  at  perceiving  that 
he  seemed  to  be  as  deeply  interested  in  the  matter  as  the 
professional  machinist.  His  eyes  followed  every  movement 
of  the  latter,  and  it  was  evident  from  the  intent  expression 
of  his  countenance,  that  everything  but  the  engine  and  the 
difficulty  was  forgotten.  At  length  there  was  a  flash  of 
the  eye — a  lighting  up  of  all  the  features — succeeded  in  a 
moment  by  an  earnest  and  thoughtful  gaze  at  one  part  of 
the  engine,  whence  I  inferred,  and  rightly,  that  Harding 
had  conjectured  the  cause  of  the  failure,  and  was  seeking 
to  verify  his  idea.  Stepping  to  his  side  quietly,  and  looking 
for  a  few  moments  at  the  spot  on  which  his  attention  was 
fixed,  I  said,  in  a  kind  of  abstracted  way,  and  rather  as  if 
thinking  aloud  than  addressing  myself  purposely  to  him, 
'  What  can  be  the  matter  with  this  thing  ?  Can't  you  find  it 
out,  Harding?  I  dare  say  it  is  some  very  slight  defect, 
which  could  be  remedied  in  ten  minutes.'  If  I  had  spoken 
in  any  other  way,  it  is  probable  that  his  thoughts  would 
have  been  recalled  to  our  relative  positions  ;  but  my  remark 
had  so  casual  and  matter-of-course  an  air — conveyed  so 
perfectly  the  idea  that  I  was  thinking  only  of  the  machine, 
and  chimed  in  so  well  with  his  own  similar  pre-occupation, 
that  he  continued  to  forget  the  prison,  the  governor,  and  his 
own  position  as  convict ;  and  he  proceeded  at  once  to  point 


CRUELTY,  VS.  KINDNESS. 


131 


out  what  he  supposed  to  be  the  cause  of  the  difficulty.  He 
was  right ;  the  engineer  saw  in  a  moment  what  was  want- 
ed, and.  again  most  fortunately  for  the  success  of  my  effort, 
acknowledged  the  fact  with  a  brief  but  hearty  expression 
of  thanks  to  Harding  for  the  discovery.  Sir,  the  key  was 
found  to  the  true  and  better  nature  of  the  man.  The  grati- 
fication he  felt  at  that  moment  in  the  consciousness  of  hav- 
ing rendered  a  valuable  service — aided,  no  doubt,  by  some 
up-rising  of  self-esteem  at  his  sagacity  and  success  where 
a  skilful  mechanician  had  been  baffled — afforded  all  that 
I  wanted  for  his'regeneration,  as  I  may  call  it.  My  course 
with  him  henceforth  was  clear,  though  requiring  much  cau- 
tion and  skilful  management.  I  had  but  to  encourage  and 
develop  to  full  action  his  feeling  of  self-respect,  perhaps  now 
called  into  existence,  but  certainly  for  the  first  time  fostered 
and  rightly  guided.  By  slight  occasional  allusions  to  his 
acuteness,  made  incidentally  and  as  if  merely  suggested 
by  some  occurrence  of  the  moment,  I  not  only  kept  alive 
in  his  mind  the  recollection  of  the  pleasant  feeling  he  had 
experienced,  but  at  length  induced  him  to  express  a  wish 
for  employment  in  the  machine  department — for  which  he 
had  evidently  a  natural  aptitude ;  and  the  promptness  with 
with  I  acceded  to  his  wish,  aided  by  an  encouraging,  half- 
jocular  remark  upon  the  certainty  of  his  becoming  a  skilful 
engineer,  put  him  in  precisely  the  right  frame  of  mind  for 
working  out  all  the  good  which  I  had  hoped  and  expected. 
Henceforth  his  progress  was  rapid  and  scarcely  interrupted. 
You  have  seen  him  the  foreman  of  the  machine  department, 
in  which  he  has  introduced  several  very  ingenious  and  valu- 
able improvements ;  you  have  seen  him  grateful,  gentle, 
assiduous,  and  self-respecting ;  and  I  have  only  to  add,  that 
when  he  receives  the  pardon  which  I  have  solicited  for  him, 
though  society  will  gain  a  useful  member,  I  shall  lose  my 
most  excellent  and  esteemed  assistant." 

Such  was  the  story  related  to  me  by  the  humane  and 
judicious  governor  of  a  state  prison — a  man  who  had  saga- 
city to  perceive  and  a  heart  to  feel  that  even  in  the  most 
perverted  nature  there  might  be  a  germ  of  good  still  subsist- 


132 


CRUELTY,  VS.  KINDNESS. 


ing,  which  needed  only  gentle  and  wise  culture  to  quicken 
and  expand  and  ultimately  bring  forth  golden  fruit.  I  am 
not  of  those  who  believe  that  evil  is  the  constituent  of  man's 
nature^  that  its  tendencies  are  all  downward,  its  impulses 
all  demoralizing,  its  elements  all  corrupt.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  my  faith,  that  on  the  whole,  good  largely  predominates ; 
that  the  majority  of  men  are  chiefly  susceptible  of  generous 
and  kindly  emotions  ;  and  that  there  is  no  man — never  has 
been  a  man,  so  utterly  depraved  as  to  be  incapable  of  rescue 
from  the  dominion  of  sin,  and  its  invariable  companion,  sor- 
row. The  veriest  wretch  who  squanders  £fe  and  intellect 
in  the  continual  indulgence  of  his  basest  appetite — the  mur- 
derer, whose  hands  are  red  with  the  blood  of  many  victims — 
the  most  hardened  and  daring  violator  of  every  law,  divine 
or  human — if  he  has  within  him  one  spark  of  affection,  one 
pure  feeling,  aye,  or  even  one  perception,  however  feeble, 
of  his  own  guilt  and  degradation — is  not  wholly  depraved, 
not  wholly  destitute  of  good.  There  yet  lingers  around  his 
iron  and  gloomy  heart  some  ray  of  the  divine  effulgence 
by  which  the  most  exalted  spirits  are  illuminated  ;  and  faint 
and  glimmering  though  it  be,  there  are  moments  when  it 
may  be  seen  struggling  out  from  among  the  darkness  by 
which  it  is  encompassed,  even  as  the  bright  sunbeams  will 
at  times  burst  through  the  gathered  clouds  of  a  stormy  day 
in  winter. 

Is  it  to  be  believed  that  a  human  being  exists,  in  the  pos- 
session of  his  faculties,  whose  bosom  never  swelled  with 
indignation  at  the  sight  of  injustice  or  tyranny?  Who 
never  paid  willing  homage  at  the  shrine  of  intellectual  or 
moral  greatness?  I  say,  then,  those  emotions  were  the 
working  of  the  better  part  within  ;  and  so  is  every  conscious- 
ness of  joy  that  is  felt  after  the  performance  of  a  good  action, 
every  satisfaction  derived  from  the  resistance  of  temptation, 
every  gush  of  love  that  pours  out,  warm  and  glowing  from 
the  heart,  toward  a  fellow-being.  Can  a  human  creature 
be  imagined  so  destitute  of  humanity  as  to  be  capable  of 
looking  upon  the  gladsome  features  of  a  child,  sporting  and 
gamboling  in  its  joyous  innocence,  without  an  impulse  to 


SPRING   IS  COMING. 


133 


bless  it — or  of  beholding  the  sorrow  of  a  child's  young  heart, 
without  desiring  to  wipe  away  the  tears  in  sympathy  and 
love?  In  that  loving  sympathy  with  joy  or  grief,  the  better 
portion  of  our  nature  is  displayed ;  and  were  it  seen  even 
in  the  greatest  of  offenders,  we  might  be  sure  that  amid  the 
blackness  of  the  soul  within  there  were  yet  some  sparkles 
of  the  ray  divine,  from  which  hope  might  anticipate,  at 
some  happy  and  appointed  time,  expansion  to  the  radiance 
of  full  and  perfect  day. 


SPRING   IS  COMING-. 


Spring  is  coming-,  Spring  is  coming, 
Birds  are  chirping,  insects  humming ! 
Flowers  are  peeping  from  their  sleeping, 
Streams  escaped  from  winter's  keeping. 
In  delighted  freedom  rushing, 
Dance  along  in  music  gushing, 
Scenes  of  late  in  deadness  saddened, 
Smile  in  animation  gladdened ; 
All  is  beauty,  all  is  mirth, 
All  is  glory  upon  earth. 
Shout  we  then  with  Nature's  voice, 
Welcome,  Spring  ! — rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 

Spring  is  coming  :  come,  my  brother, 
Let  us  rove  with  one  another, 
To  our  well-remembered  wild  wood, 
Flourishing  in  nature's  childhood  ; 
Where  a  thousand  flowers  are  springing, 
And  a  thousand  birds  are  singing;" 
Where  the  golden  sunbeams  quiver 
On  the  verdure-girdled  river ; 
Let  our  youth  of  feeling  out, 
To  the  youth  of  nature  shout, 
While  the  waves  repeat  our  voice, 
Welcome,  Spring ! — rejoice !  rejoice  I 


LOOK  ALOFT. 


BY  JONATHAN  LAWRENCE,  JUN. 


[The  following  lines  were  suggested  by  an  anecdote  said  to  have  been  related 
by  the  late  Dr.  Godman,  of  the  ship-boy  who  was  about  to  fall  from  the  rigging, 
and  was  only  saved  by  the  mate's  characteristic  exclamation,  (:  Look  aloft,  you 
lubber !"] 

Tn  the  tempest  of  life  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing1  should  fail — 
If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim  and  thy  caution  depart — 
"Look  aloft,"  and  be  firm,  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friend,  who  embraced  in  prosperity's  glow, 
With  a  smile  for  each  joy  and  a  tear  for  each  woe. 
Should  betray  thee,  when  sorrow  like  clouds  are  arrayed, 
"Look  aloft"  to  the  friendship  which  never  shall  fade. 

Should  the  visions  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to  thine  eye, 
Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  to  fly, 
Then  turn,  and  through  tears  of  repentant  regret, 
"Look  aloft"  to  the  sun  that  is  never  to  set. 

Should  they  who  are  dearest — (the  son  of  thy  heart — 
The  wife  of  thy  bosom) — in  sorrow  depart, 
"Look  aloft,"  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb, 
To  that  soil  where  "affection  is  ever  in  bloom." 

And,  oh !  when  death  comes  in  terrors,  to  cast 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past, 
In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart, 
And  a  smile  in  thine  eye,  "look  aloft,"  and  depart! 


BEAUTY    COMETH    FROM  DARKNESS 
A  FABLE. 


BY    C.    D.  STUART. 


A  fair,  white  lily,  sat  upon  its  throne  in  a  summer  bower. 
When  the  morning  came,  in  her  golden  chariot,  the  lily 
saluted  her  brightness  with  the  divinest  odors.  The  lily 
was  beautiful  to  behold — it  seemed  the  spirit  of  a  saintly 
meekness  and  purity.  The  proud  and  the  humble  of  earth, 
looked  upon  it  with  equal  delight,  and  to  all  it  wore  a 
tender  blush,  suffused  with  rarest  fragrance.  It  was  called 
the  type  of  innocence,  virtue,  and  humility.  It  was  a  blos- 
som of  light.  But,  in  the  heart  of  this  fair,  white  lily,  was 
a  seed  of  pride.  The  homage  paid  to  its  beauty  made  it 
vain  among  the  flowers.  It  tossed  its  head,  with  scorn, 
above  the  gentle  daisies  and  violets,  and  said  to  the  red- 
lipped,  virgin  rose,  "  I  am  more  beautiful  than  thou."  The 
soft,  shining  dew,  crept  into  its  heart,  at  night,  thinking  it 
sweet  to  sleep  and  dream  on  such  a  couch  ;  but  the  lily 
cast  it  rudely  aside,  "I  am  of  the  day,"  it  said,  "and  will 
have  nought  to  do  with  darkness."  On  the  reeds  and  grass 
the  drops  of  shaken  dew  lay  quivering,  under  the  lily's 
scornful  glance.  In  the  morning,  the  sun's  rays  caught 
them  up  to  heaven,  and  they  said,  "  We  will  not  visit  the 
proud  lily  again."  The  days  were  beautiful.  The  skies, 
without  cloud,  poured  a  fiery  glow  over  the  earth.  The 
nights  were  beautiful.  Moon  and  stars  went  on  their  shi- 
ning courses.  But  where  the  lily  sat  upon  its  throne,  the 
air  was  dry  and  hard.  The  dew  had  forsaken  the  lily. 
Its  lips  grew  parched,  its  cheeks  shriveled,  and  it  wept, 
not  in  sorrow,  but  for  vexation.  "  My  beauty  is  fading," 
was  its  cry.    "I  am  athirst — the  day  blinds  me,  and  the 


136 


JOY  AND  SORROW. 


sun  drinks  up  my  life."  Then  the  lily  saw  the  rose  it  had 
disdained,  dewy  in  the  morning,  and  fresh,  and  beautiful. 
And  the  violets  and  daisies,  sleeping  in  the  grass,  were  lovely 
as  ever.  Then  the  lily  saw  its  punishment,  and  besought 
the  dew  to  return.  But  it  was  too  late.  In  the  darkness, 
as  it  gasped  for  life,  the  lily  saw  on  rose  and  violet,  soft, 
shining  eyes ;  eyes  of  the  spirits  of  the  night,  which  bring 
the  nectar  of  heaven  to  the  hearts  of  fainting  flowers.  They 
were  dew-drops,  and  it  heard  the  zephyrs  singing  above 
them,  "  Behold  these,  too,  are  ministers  and  messengers  of 
God,  without  which  the  flowers  cannot  live."  Then  remorse 
shook  the  heart  of  the  lily,  and,  falling  upon  its  throne, 
it  murmured,  with  the  voice  of  death,  "  Accursed  be  the 
pride  which  knew  not  that,  often,  *  Beauty  cometh  from 
darkness  !' " 


JOY    AND  SORROW, 


BY    J.    G .  BROOKS. 


Joy  kneels  at  morning's  rosy  prime, 

In  worship  to  the  rising  sun ; 
But  sorrow  loves  the  calmer  time, 

When  the  day-god  his  course  hath  run; 
When  night  is  on  her  shadowy  car, 

Pale  Sorrow  wakes,  while  Joy  doth  sleep; 
And,  guided  by  the  evening  star, 

She  wanders  forth  to  muse  and  weep. 

Joy  loves  to  cull  the  summer  flower, 

And  wreath  it  round  his  happy  brow ; 
And  when  the  dark  autumnal  hour 

Hath  laid  the  leaf  and  blossoms  low — 
When  the  frail  bud  hath  lost  its  worth, 

And  Joy  hath  dash'd  it  from  his  crest — 
Then  Sorrow  takes  it  from  the  earth, 

To  wither  on  her  wither'd  breast. 


JHotljOT  anir  SDaugljtars  of  %  Bible. 


BATHSHEBA. 

BY  THE  EDITOR. 

Long  and  dreadful  have  been  the  wars  of  Palestine.  On 
the  one  side,  there  is  the  youthful  nation  of  Israel  to  contend 
for  its  birthright  in  the  land  sworn  to  them  by  the  God  of 
heaven  from  the  days  of  Noah.  Upon  the  other  side,  we 
have  a  multitude  of  petty  nations  to  contend  for  their  fire- 
sides and  altars  against  the  invaders  of  the  land  where  their 
fathers  have  lived  and  died  since  the  division  of  the  earth 
among  the  sons  of  Noah.  Both  contend  for  their  very  exist- 
ence, through  centuries  of  battles  and  sieges  that  have 
thrown  an  eclipse  over  the  wars  of  the  cotemporary  nations 
about  Ilium  or  Thebes.  Nor  should  those  days  have  been 
judged  unworthy  of  an  epic  more  lofty  than  those  that  cele- 
brate the  wrath  of  Achilles  or  the  sufferings  of  iEneeas,  but 
that  the  spirit  of  the  Hebrew  bards  was  averse  to  dwelling 
upon  battles  and  wounds  and  heroes ;  and  all  that  are  most 
capable  among  Christians,  prefer  other  themes  for  song. 

The  streams  of  Jordan  part  before  the  sons  of  Israel;  and 
next,  the  walls  of  Jericho  ruin  upon  the  dusty  plain.  The 
hosts  of  Midian  flee  before  a  blast  of  horns  by  night,  and 
leave  Jerubbaal  lord  of  the  battle-field  through  the  cowardice 
of  his  foes.  The  stars  grow  red  with  wrath  above  the  doom- 
ed hosts  of  Sisera — and,  amid  a  night  of  clouds  unseen  of 
men,  the  Almighty  shakes  his  blackening  thunders.  The 
hordes  of  Ammon  flee  before  the  phalanx  of  Jephthah,  and 
obscene  Chemosh  shames  his  worshippers  overthrown  in 


138 


BATHSHEBA. 


battle.  The  invincible  Danite  with  his  single  arm  drives 
before  him  the  chosen  heroes  of  Philistine  armies,  and  earns 
his  meed  of  immortal  glory  by  delivering  his  betrayers  from 
the  dread  of  their  tyrants.  With  feats  of  arms  the  whole 
land  resounds,  and  Saul  with  his  chosen  heroes  makes  long 
amends  for  the  partial  enslavement  of  Israel  among  bar- 
barian foes. 

At  length  the  predestined  hour  approaches  when  the  young 
son  of  Jesse  shall  begin  to  grow  famous  in  battle.  The  city 
gates  pour  forth  their  multitudes  in  arms,  as  when  winds 
above  the  sea  pile  clouds  on  clouds,  and  pour  down  storms 
of  wreathed  hail ;  or  as  when  millions  of  migratory  fowl  for- 
sake their  haunts  by  the  shores  of  the  northern  sea,  and 
drive  before  the  autumnal  year  to  far-off  lands.  From  Gaza's 
watery  bounds,  by  Besor's  stream — from  Ascalon.  or  Acca- 
ron,  or  Ashdod,  the  house  of  Dagon — and  from  the  giant 
towers  of  Gath,  the  Philistine  youth  crowd  eagerly  to  join 
the  standard  of  their  lords,  and  signalize  their  bravery  in 
war ;  forgetful  all  how  costly  a  victory  brought  them  the 
insupportable  ark  of  the  Almighty's  covenant,  when  Hophni 
and  Phinehas  fell  at  the  head  of  their  heroes  in  Ebenezer. 

The  sons  of  Israel,  also,  at  the  call  of  their  king,  come 
trooping  by  myriads  from  Paneas  and  the  snowy  ridges  of 
Hermon  or  Lebanon  rough  with  cedars  and  rocks  of  ice— 
from  the  wild  glades  of  the  south  by  Beersheba  and  the  As- 
phaltic  lake — from  Gilead  and  the  borders  of  Moab  or  Am- 
nion, or  from  the  sea  shore  ;  and  to  the  sound  of  the  trumpet 
respond  hosannas  as  the  voice  of  the  sea. 

On  opposing  hills  the  foes  spread  their  phalanx  with  moon- 
ed wings,  and  pitch  their  covered  camps.  Long  time  delay- 
ing to  strike,  they  stand  surveying  each  the  other  with  hostile 
eyes — and  Goliath  each  day  presents  his  mighty  stature. 
At  length  the  son  of  Jesse,  in  his  ruddy  youth,  advances, 
and,  with  a  sling  and  a  stone,  fells  the  blasphemer  to  the 
earth  at  a  blow.  The  spouting  blood  pours  forth  to  stain 
all  his  armor,  erewhile  so  bright  when  he  stood  towering 
before  the  hosts  in  brass  and  steel  and  burnished  gold,  and 
from  his  nodding  plume,  as  from  a  comet  flaming  in  the  sky 


BATHSHEBA. 


139 


of  the  north,  scattered  terror  and  flight  among  his  foes. 
The  giant  falls — yet  he  stands  again,  and,  with  lifted  arm, 
shakes  his  terrible  lance  at  large.  His  sightless  orbs  suf- 
fused, flash  fire  mingled  with  blood.  Again  he  falls  to  the 
earth ;  but,  reluctant  to  die,  attempts  once  more  to  stand, 
and,  half  raised  on  his  bended  knees,  he  invokes  his  Gods 
with  a  curse,  and  calls  his  armed  heroes  to  avenge  his  dis- 
grace upon  the  circumcised  crew.  Again  he  sinks  upon  the 
earth,  and  with  deep  groans  yields  up  his  fierce  and  bloody 
soul  to  the  angels  to  death. 

The  ruddy  youth  stands  upon  his  dead  body,  and,  drawing 
from  the  scabbard  his  keenly  flashing  sabre,  with  a  blow  cuts 
off  his  head,  and  bears  it  to  the  king.  The  multitude,  with 
joy  and  shouts,  gaze  on  the  grim  features  scarcely  less  terrible 
even  in  death  than  those  of  Geryon  or  Cacus.  The  Most  High 
approving,  gives  his  signal  of  thunder  in  a  clear  sky,  and  the 
uncircumcised  nations  turn  their  backs  to  flee  from  the  hos- 
tile plain,  where  their  champion  lies  headless  and  despoiled 
of  all  his  armor — a  prey  to  jackals.  But,  vainly  will  they 
flee,  for  the  anointed  armies  sing  "Hosanna  to  the  Highest!" 
and  hang  like  a  tempest  upon  the  retreating  foe  with  terror 
and  infinite  slaughter.  The  fields  redden  and  the  rivers 
choke  with  multitudes  of  slain,  while  they  roll  bloody  to  the 
sea  with  the  gore  of  heroes.  The  infernal  seats  are  stirred, 
and  all  their  kings  rise  up  to  meet  the  pale  and  sighing 
ghosts  fallen  by  doom  of  battle. 

Then  returning  from  conquest,  they  come  to  their  native 
cities,  where  Peace  now  shall  long  wave  her  olive  branch ; 
and  the  young-eyed  damsels  of  their  tribes  come  forth  to 
meet  them,  singing,  "Saul  hath  slain  his  thousands,  but 
David  his  ten  thousands  !"  At  the  head  of  her  companions, 
the  youthful  Bathsheba  leads  the  dance,  and  holds  in  her 
fair  hands  garlands  of  fragrant  flowers,  wherewith  they  strew 
the  path  of  the  heroes,  and  crown  the  brows  of  the  brave 
with  victorious  boughs.  Unrivalled  in  beauty  and  grace, 
the  daughter  of  Eliam  is  crowned  with  flowers  by  her  maids 
as  they  dance  and  sing,  "  Blest  be  the  mother  of  the  hero, 
and  blest  be  his  father;  blest  be  his  sister  that  shall  be 


140 


BATHSHABA. 


spouse  to  the  kingdom's  heir ;  and  blest  be  the  maiden  in 
her  royal  harem  that  shall  call  him  her  lord  !"  The  queenly 
daughter  of  Saul  joins  in  the  giddy  dance  before  her  father 
and  his  heroes,  and  counts  herself  happiest  among  women, 
that  she  may  now  become  the  spouse  of  the  youthful  shep- 
herd that  has  come  to  excel  the  giants  of  the  earth  in  feats 
of  arms. 

Alas,  that  so  fair  a  morning  cannot  be  without  clouds ! 
that  such  unquestioned  joy  should  not  for  once  be  left  un- 
mingled  with  sorrow  !  The  malignant  spirit  of  Saul  is  rous- 
ed to  hate  the  deliverer  of  his  empire,  and  he  is  driven  into 
exile,  with  a  price  set  upon  his  head,  although  he  is  the 
king's  son-in-law,  and  anointed  by  Divine  command  as  the 
future  king  of  Israel,  that  there  may  be  at  least  one  king  on 
the  earth  that  can  himself  excel  in  statesmanship  and  feats 
of  arms,  and  live  without  jealousy  of  such  as  rival  him  in 
either.  Saul  proves  himself  unfit  to  reign,  by  his  hatred  of 
the  loftiest  virtue  ;  while  David  shall  show  all  kings  unwor- 
thy of  comparison  with  him,  for  his  magnanimity  in  sparing 
his  deadliest  foe,  and  treating  with  distinguished  regard  the 
poor  remains  of  his  family  after  he  has  fallen  upon  his  own 
sword  in  the  rout  of  his  army. 

Years  pass,  and  the  ruddy  swain,  whose  harp  has  proved 
too  charming  for  one  of  hell's  blackest  spirits,  as  his  arm 
has  been  shown  too  strong  for  the  mightiest  among  the  sons 
of  Anak,  sits  in  an  uncontested  throne,  surrounded  by  his 
millions  of  heroes,  and  too  powerful  for  the  mightiest  tyran- 
nies of  the  earth.  The  exile  of  Ram  ah,  and  Nob,  and  Gath, 
and  Keilah,  and  En-gaddi,  and  Hachilah,  and  Maon,  and 
Ziglag,  is  now  the  king  of  Israel  and  the  head  of  a  dynasty 
that  shall  rule  all  lands  and  all  ages  from  the  throne  of  God. 
Yet  is  David  a  man  of  sorrowful  spirit,  and  his  noblest 
triumphs  cost  him  woe.  He  is  afflicted  beyond  measure  at 
the  death  of  Saul,  his  mortal  foe,  and  breaks  his  mighty 
heart  at  the  assassination  of  that  foe's  worthless  son,  after 
he  has  wept  behind  the  funeral  of  the  mighty  son  of  Neri. 
The  strongholds  of  the  mountain  fortress  of  Sion  yield  to 
his  arms,  and  he  makes  Jerusalem  the  seat  of  his  empire. 


BATHSHEBA. 


141 


The  Tynans  become  his  allies,  and  send  him  trees  of  cedar 
from  Lebanon,  to  rear  him  a  palace  worthy  of  his  state, 
\  under  the  direction  of  their  noblest  architects.  Then  he 
resolves  to  rear  a  magnificent  temple  to  Jehovah  that  shall 
be  the  glory  of  his  reign  and  the  wonder  of  the  world  ;  but 
this  is  denied  him,  and  referred  to  a  son  not  yet  born.  The 
Philistines  and  Moabites,  and  the  men  of  Rehob  and  Da- 
mascus, the  sons  of  Edom  and  Amalek,  with  the  Ammonites, 
everywhere  fall  before  his  arms,  and  leave  him  master  of  all 
the  regions  sworn  to  the  sons  of  Israel,  from  the  river  of  Egypt 
to  the  fountains  of  upper  Lebanon,  and  from  the  sea  to  the 
river  of  Babylon. 

Alas  !  that  prosperity  should  be  able  to  take  in  its  deceitful 
snare  such  as  the  storms  of  adverse  fortune  cannot  bend  ! 
While  his  invincible  general  (red  with  the  blood  of  Abner, 
but  reprieved  till  he  can  be  better  spared,)  is  besieging  Rab- 
bah,  and  reducing  the  myrmidons  of  impudent  Hanun  to 
the  last  straits,  the  son  of  Jesse  becomes  ensnared  with  the 
fair  looks  of  Eliam's  daughter,  now  the  spouse  of  the  bra^e 
Uriah,  and  joins  murder  to  adultery,  that  she  may  add  her 
charms  to  his  harem,  already  overstocked,  and  encumbered 
with  a  multitude  of  wives  and  concubines,  with  their  lawless 
brood  of  sons  and  daughters  ready  to  raise  seditions  against 
their  father  while  he  lives,  and  to  murder  each  the  other, 
without  remorse,  when  he  is  dead.    Such  is  the  fortune  of 
exalted  state.    The  children  of  the  poor  dread  the  loss  of 
their  father ;  and  his  single  wife,  humble  and  laborious  and 
unknown  to  the  world,  will  watch  the  stars  out  by  the  side 
of  his  couch  of  pain,  and  weep  inconsolable  at  his  grave. 
But  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  rich  desire  his  death,  that 
without  hindrance  they  may  first  contend  like  wolves  for 
the  remains  of  his  estate,  and  then  spend  his  dearly-earned 
wealth  in  riotous  living ;   nor  will  his  widow  long  weep 
after  the  weary  pageantry  of  his  funeral  is  over,  and  the 
tomb  has  shut  upon  his  mortal  corse  her  gloomy  doors. 

Thus  he  that  never  wronged  a  rival,  and  never  envied 
one  of  his  most  renowmed  heroes  his  well-earned  fame — he 
who  wept  when  his  bitterest  foes  perished,  and  vexed  his 


142 


BATHSHEBA. 


soul  for  the  distress  of  the  most  ungrateful  wretches  that 
ever  dishonored  the  human  form — is  found,  when  left  to 
himself,  what  the  best  man  now  living  would  be  in  like  cir- 
cumstances, a  miserable  criminal,  too  frail  to  resist  the  most 
ordinary  temptation,  and  too  callous  to  regret  the  wrongs 
he  has  inflicted  upon  his  most  faithful  servants  and  the 
world,  or  the  insults  wherewith  he  has  offended  the  injured 
majesty  of  Heaven. 

The  widow's  tears  are  few  and  brief,  and  she  hastens  to 
Jay  aside  her  weeds  for  the  robes  of  the  favorite  sultana,  to- 
blaze  in  diamonds  and  gold  and  gems,  and  exercise  capri- 
cious tyranny  in  the  harem  of  the  mightiest  monarch  in  the 
world.    But,  short  and  partial  shall  prove  her  triumph — 
the  triumph  of  beauty  and  pride.    The  alliance  begun  in 
adultery  and  consummated  by  murder,  is  odious  to  men  and 
cursed  of  God.    The  slighted  wives  of  her  lord  and  their 
children  will  abhor  her  intrusion,  and  rejoice  in  whatever 
calamity  may  befal  her  or  whatever  sons  and  daughters  may 
call  her  mother.    The  insulted  angels  of  her  nuptial  chamber 
have  gone  away,  shamed  and  covered  with  blushes,  to  accuse 
her  before  Heaven's  Chancery,  that  writes  its  decrees  in 
tables  of  brass,  and  not  in  rose-leaves ;  but  they  shall  soon 
return,  with  commission  to  call  her  sin  to  remembrance,  by 
slaying  her  first-born.    Bathsheba,  however,  thinks  little  of 
the  woes  that  await  her,  and  what  more  may  befall  her  sons 
long  after  she  is  dead,  through  her  fault ;  but  gives  herself 
up  to  the  intoxications  of  her  new  splendors,  and  deems  a 
court  the  happiest  place  this  side  of  heaven — a  court  where 
all  faces  wear  forced  smiles,  and  all  words  are  chosen  to  flatter 
the  great,  while  they  are  envied  and  waylaid  with  poisons 
and  poniards  in  every  path  where  they  may  walk,  whether 
in  public  or  in  their  most  secret  retirements,  by  night  or  by 
day.    What  to  her  is  the  evident  murder  of  her  husband  ? 
what  are  the  secret  execrations  of  all  mothers,  and  the  real 
contempt  of  every  father  in  Israel?    She  sits  a  queen,  and 
her  spouse  is  the  hero  whose  deeds  she  sung  long  ago  among 
the  damsels  of  her  train,  when  he  bore  in  his  hand  the  head 
of  the  giant,  the  terror  and  scourge  of  the  most  powerful 


BATHSHEBA. 


143 


princes  of  Asia.  0!  with  what  sharpness  and  desire  has 
she  envied  the  women  that  have  filled  his  harem  even  when 
he  was  in  exile  and  danger !  With  what  exultation  has  she 
come  to  be  their  superior  now  that  he  sits  upon  an  insuper- 
able throne,  and  all  his  enemies  have  come  to  lick  the  dust 
of  his  feet ! 

But,  if  neither  Bathsheba  nor  her  kingly  paramour  will 
look  into  the  consequences  of  their  actions,  there  is  One  that 
sees  far  down  the  path  of  future  ages,  and  notes  all  the 
crimes  and  calamities  of  her  race.  A  bald  and  stern  old 
minstrel  is  at  hand,  that  can  make  the  running  brooks  delay 
to  the  sound  of  his  harmonious  strings,  and  the  kid  will 
leave  her  uncropped  twigs  to  listen,  when  he  trills  his  sub- 
lime madrigal,  and  sings  of  the  stars  and  the  winds  and  the 
sun's  unwearied  course,  the  glory  of  kings,  and  the  judg- 
ments of  Heaven  against  the  godless,  that  disdain  to  live 
according  to  just  and  equitable  laws,  or  the  glorious  meeds 
that  await  ^he  just  in  the  resurrection  world.  Ever  welcome 
and  honored  as  a  sacred  character  at  the  courts  of  kings  and 
the  palaces  of  the  great,  either  in  Palestine  or  in  other  lands, 
he  goes  and  comes  at  his  will,  and  is  everywhere  alike  at 
home.  Such  were  the  bards  of  ancient  times,  before  prophecy 
became  mercenary,  and  gold  could  ennoble  things  by  nature 
mean  and  low — when  a  mule  had  not  become  the  "  illustrious 
foal  of  steeds  whose  feet  are  winds,"  and  when  a  man  was 
better  in  prison  and  chains  than  a  horse  contending  for  the 
prize  of  swiftness  and  strength  at  Olympic  games.  Often 
has  he  sung  before  the  king  of  Israel,  who  acknowledges 
there  is  at  least  one  prophet  that  can  warble  extemporaneous 
hymns  to  rival  his  own. 

There  is  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night  in  the  house  of  the 
forest  of  Lebanon,  and  the  beauty  and  bravery  of  Israel  are 
gathered  in  the  presence  of  their  lord,  to  congratulate  him 
upon  the  birth  of  a  son  that  they  name  the  future  heir  to 
his  throne.  Softly,  as  from  a  sky,  a  thousand  lamps  are 
shining  from  urns  of  alabaster  or  shaded  hyaline,  from  cups 
of  amethyst  and  orbs  of  chrysolite  or  carbuncle.  Music  is 
there  with  her  voluptuous  swell,  from  harps  and  charming 


144 


BATHSHEBA. 


pipes,  and  every  instrument  of  breath  or  fret  of  golden  wires. 
The  dance  whirls  of  innumerable  feet  in  maze  upon  maze, 
like  the  whirl  of  stars  about  the  pale-eyed  moon  in  a  sum- 
mer's night ;  and  the  voice  of  song  ascends  pure  and  sweet, 
like  a  stream  of  rich  distilled  perfumes  from  beds  of  roses 
and  islands  of  cinnamon  in  the  sea  of  Araby  the  blest.  The 
wine-cup  too  is  there,  and  the  jocund  laugh,  and  the  lively 
jest,  where  wit  and  music,  mirth  and  delicious  cates,  are 
mingled  in  a  sea  of  delight,  till  the  stars  fade  and  the  grey 
dawn  begins  to  streak  the  east  with  first  rays  of  approaching 
morn.  Pale  as  the  Damascene  rose,  and  beautiful  as  the 
large-eyed  Houris,  sits  the  newly-wedded  bride  and  mother 
upon  an  equal  throne  at  the  right  hand  of  her  lord,  and 
receives  the  courtly  homage  of  a  thousand  lords  with  their 
princely  dames.  With  late  night  comes  the  venerable  seer, 
unbidden  but  ever  welcome,  into  the  crowded  hall.  At  his 
presence  the  sounds  of  revelry  are  hushed — for  great  is  the 
love  and  the  veneration  of  Nathan  among  all  that  throng 
the  court  of  Sion,  and  he  has  been  always  old  in  the  memory 
of  grey-haired  men,  always  beloved  alike  by  the  young  and 
the  aged  for  his  gentle  spirit  and  divine  songs. 

With  prelusive  touch  he  runs  his  skilful  fingers  over  the 
chords  of  his  seven-stringed  lyre  ;  then  sings  of  battles  and 
miracles  in  "  parables  and  dark  sayings  of  old  ;"  the  punish- 
ments of  Egypt,  the  passage  of  the  sea,  the  march  through 
the  desert,  with  clouds  of  fire,  and  manna,  and  miraculous 
waters  flowing  from  burning  rocks,  and  all  the  way  whereby 
the  Most  High  led  their  fathers  until  the  day  when  he  chose 
the  son  of  Jesse,  and  brought  him  forth  from  following  the 
pasturage  of  flocks  to  be  the  shepherd  of  Israel,  that  he  might 
"  feed  them  according  to  the  integrity  of  his  heart,  and  guide 
them  by  the  skilfulness  of  his  hands." 

The  song  changes  to  a  solemn  and  troubled  air,  as  some 
grand  heroic  symphony,  when  Beethoven  plays,  gives  place 
to  a  funereal  march  and  the  sight  of  a  newly-made  grave. 
He  sings  of  a  lowly  thatched  cottage  under  the  shade  of  an 
ancient  olive,  in  a  lonely  field  by  the  side  of  a  forest  far  from 
cities  and  the  crowded  ways  of  public  resort.    A  purling 


BATHSHEBA. 


145 


brook  runs  by  from  its  crystal  spring,  and  winds  among 
slender  grass  through  the  distant  vales.  The  chaste  wife, 
brown  with  toil  beneath  the  hot  sun,  prepares  a  frugal  meal 
of  bread  and  flesh  and  savory  herbs  for  her  husband,  against 
his  return  from  the  field  at  noon,  when  his  playful  children 
come  about  him  with  mirth  and  laughter,  and  climb  his 
knees  or  hang  upon  his  lips.  A  pet  lamb  is  his  earthly  all ; 
that  follows  him  wherever  he  goes,  or  runs  with  joy  to  meet 
him  at  his  return  to  his  humble  home.  She  has  grown  up 
with  his  children  ;  she  eats  of  his  own  food  and  drinks  from 
his  own  cup :  and  when  he  lies  down  to  sleep  on  his  pallet 
of  straw,  she  comes  to  nestle  in  his  bosom  like  a  daughter, 
and  sleeps  in  his  arms  like  an  affectionate  child. 

Alas !  oppression  finds  its  way  to  that  peaceful  retreat ! 
A  certain  rich  man  sits  first  in  the  gate  of  judgment  and 
highest  in  the  synagogue  of  worship,  pays  ample  tithes  of 
abundant  flocks  and  herds  and  fruits  of  his  spacious  fields, 
and  thrice  yearly  comes  to  the  Tabernacle  of  Sion  with 
choice  offerings  for  the  altar,  and,  standing  before  the  whole 
multitude,  returns  thanks  to  God  that  he  is  not  like  other 
men — extortioners,  unjust,  unholy,  or  profane.  But,  when 
a  stranger  comes  to  ask  his  hospitality  for  a  night,  he  will 
take  nothing  of  his  own  abundance  for  his  entertainment, 
and  the  poor  man's  lamb  is  haled  away  by  force,  to  be  served 
up  in  a  banquet  to  the  wayfarer,  without  pity  and  without 
recompense ;  and  it  is  well  if  the  sorrowing  cottager  escapes 
without  blows  and  wounds  to  the  hazarding  of  his  life. 

The  experienced  old  minstrel  notes  with  what  passions 
his  song  affects  his  auditory,  and  perceives  how  many  eyes 
grow  moist  and  how  many  bosoms  swell  with  uncontrolled 
pity  as  his  strain  proceeds.  The  king,  more  than  all  others, 
shows  with  what  interest  he  regards  the  narrative,  (for  he  con- 
ceals more  ill  than  others  what  emotions  rise  in  his  manly 
soul.)  and  how  he  sets  himself  to  ward  off  the  application  that 
he  suspects  to  lie  at  the  bottom  of  this  plaintive  allegory — 
exclaiming,  with  ready  and  half-feigned  anger,  that  he  would 
have  to  prove  his  own  exemption  from  a  like  charge :  "  As 
the  Lord  liveth,  the  man  that  hath  done  this  thing  shall 


1'46  BATHSHEBA. 

surely  die  ;  and  he  shall  restore  the  lamb  fourfold,  because 
he  did  this  thing  and  because  he  showed  no  pity !" 

But,  the  covering  is  too  flimsy  to  delude  the  most  super- 
ficial, and  his  beautiful  Bathsheba  can  scarcely  refrain  from 
sinking  into  a  swoon  under  the  terrible  qualms  that  begin  to 
come  over  her  spirit  like  avenging  ghosts;  and  she  finds  that 
sin,  though  it  may  be  sweet  to  a  depraved  taste  in  its  com- 
mission, yet  in  the  end  will  "bite  like  a  serpent  and  sting 
like  an  adder."  The  prophet,  now  that  he  has  drawn  from 
the  royal  offender  his  own  sentence,  drops  the  allegory,  and 
continues  the  sad  improvisation  in  plain  words, — "  Thou 
art  the  man  !  Thus  saith  the  Lord  God  of  Israel,  '  I  anoint- 
ed thee  king  over  Israel,  and  I  delivered  thee  out  of  the 
hand  of  Saul ;  and. I  gave  thee  thy  master's  house,  and  thy 
master's  wives  into  thy  bosom,  and  gave  thee  the  house  of 
Israel  and  of  Judah  ;  and  if  that  had  been  too  little,  I  would 
moreover  have  given  unto  thee  such  and  such  things.  Where- 
fore hast  thou  despised  the  commandment  of  the  Lord,  to  do 
evil  in  his  sight?  Thou  hast  killed  Uriah  the  Hittite  with 
the  sword,  and  hast  taken  his  wife  to  be  thy  wife,  and  hast 
slain  him  with  the  sword  of  the  children  of  Ammon.  Now 
therefore  the  sword  shall  never  depart  from  thine  house ; 
because  thou  hast  despised  me,  and  hast  taken  the  wife  of 
Uriah  the  Hittite  to  be  thy  wife.  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  Be- 
hold, I  will  raise  up  evil  against  thee  out  of  thine  own  house, 
and  I  will  take  thy  wives  before  thine  eyes,  and  give  them 
unto  thy  neighbor,  and  he  shall  lie  with  thy  wives  in  the 
sight  of  this  sun :  for  thou  didst  it  secretly ;  but  I  will  do 
this  thing  before  all  Israel,  and  before  the  sun.' " 

The  monarch  is  struck  dumb  and  not  angry  at  this  ter- 
rible rebuke.  He  can  only  exclaim,  "  I  have  sinned  against 
the  Lord."  But  the  Gospel  is  preached  not  to  torment  men 
before  their  time,  nor  to  reproach  them  for  their  misdeeds, 
but  to  declare  sin  forgiven  to  all  that  receive  it  in  its  fine- 
ness ;  leaving  the  incorrigible  and  perverse  to  rue  their  con- 
tempt in  another  world,  when  they  will  revile  themselves 
far  beyond  the  worst  that  man  or  angel  can  do  in  the  dialect 
of  men.    God  has  sent  his  prophet  to  move  the  king  to 


BATHSHEBA. 


147 


repentance — and  when  this  is  effected,  he  has  only  to  say, 
"  Jehovah  hath  also  put  away  thy  sin ;  thou  shalt  not  die." 
David  now  commands  his  "Miserere"  to  be  sung — and  it 
will  be  sung  till  the  end  of  time.    He  is  forgiven,  and  he 
may  sing  also,  "  Blessed  is  the  man  whose  sin  is  covered." 
But  though  this  be  so,  there  may  be  direful  consequences 
to  be  rued  by  the  offender  during  the  present  life ;  and  David 
must  not  hope  entirely  to  escape.    The  prophet  therefore 
proceeds  and  adds,  "  Howbeit  because  by  this  deed  thou  hast 
given  great  occasion  to  the  enemies  of  Jehovah  to  blaspheme, 
the  child  also  that  is  born  to  thee  shall  surely  die."  The 
offspring  of  his  crime  cannot  become  his  heir,  but  must  be 
removed.    "  Ah !  vainly  may  the  too  fond  father  now  fast 
and  pray,  and  afflict  his  soul  with  -weeping  ;  for  the  decree 
cannot  change.    His  child  is  taken  away  from  the  evil  to 
come,  and  is  in  peace  among  the  countless  multitudes  of  his 
equals  that  God  has  loved  and  removed  out  of  this  dangerous 
life,  to  make  them  heirs  of  infinite  grace ;  saved  from  the 
penal  consequences  of  their  fathers'  offences,  and  reserved  to 
the  joys  of  the  beatific  vision.    Hence  the  afflicted  father 
consoles  himself  in  his  loss,  because  the  time  is  not  far  when 
he  shall  find  him  again  in  the  spirit-world,  and  nothing  shall 
separate  them  to  all  eternity.    "  I  shall  go  to  him,  but  he 
shall  not  return  to  me." 

Now  too  may  the  penitent  queen  receive  comfort  and 
forgiveness,  and  become  the  mother  to  her  Solomon — that 
paragon  of  wisdom  and  of  weakness  that  the  world  still  ad- 
mire and  despise  beyond  aught  else  that  ever  was  great 
in  the  midst  of  enormous  errors.  Now  also  shall  Bathsheba 
learn  what  dangers  and  what  miseries  attend  the  state  of 
royalty,  and  what  those  terrible  words  import  when  it  is  said, 
"The  sword  shall  never  depart  from  thine  house."  The 
soul  sickens  at  the  recital  of  what  follows.  Tamar  the 
beautiful  is  outraged,  violated,  and  openly  disgraced,  by  her 
half-brother,  whose  death  soon  pays  the  forfeit  of  his  crimes. 
Absalom,  resolved  to  be  beforehand  with  the  young  heir,  and 
set  up  the  superior  claims  of  the  son  of  a  princess  and  grand- 
son of  a  king  against  the  pretences  of  this  plebeian  stock, 


148 


BATHSHEBA. 


raises  a  rebellion  against  his  father,  and  draws  all  Israel 
after  him  in  a  war  of  parricide. 

Ah  !  now  may  Bathsheba  rue  her  dangerous  elevation, 
when  she  must  seek  safety  for  her  infant  son  in  flight  and 
exile,  whose  end  no  mortal  sagacity  can  foresee  !    The  king 
will  not  risk  the  defences  of  the  city  against  superior  num- 
bers, nor  peril  the  lives  of  its  inhabitants  by  remaining  within 
the  walls  he  has  reared  for  himself.    With  a  handful  of  faith- 
ful retainers  he  leaves  his  palace  and  all  his  wealth  for  a 
home  in  the  desert.    Down  the  steep  descent  of  Sion  they 
move  with  hasty  steps ;  cross  over  the  stream  of  gulfy  Ke- 
dron  ;  and  sweep,  as  they  ascend  with  bare  feet,  the  steeps 
of  Olivet  by  Gethsemane.    Upon  the  shaded  summit  stands 
an  altar,  and  they  rest  until  they  offer  there  a  bullock  whole 
in  the  flames.    Thence  they  hold  on  their  painful  way,  and 
come  to  Bahurim,  where  a  fanatic  of  Saul's  descent  shows  his 
magnanimity  by  cursing  the  royal  exile — who  will  not  stop 
to  behold  his  insolence  punished  with  stripes  or  a  just  death. 
In  haste  they  pass  over  Jordan  while  it  is*  night,  and  they 
hear  deep  call  to  deep  at  the  noise  of  his  cataracts ;  then 
they  hasten  to  find  refuge  in  "  the  land  of  Jordan  and  of  the 
Hermonites,  and  the  hill-fortress  of  Mizar." 

Now  indeed  may  a  sword  enter  into  their  souls  when  they 
bear  the  curses  of  their  foes  and  the  reproaches  of  fools ;  but 
the  king  is  also  a  prophet,  and  sings,  "  Whence  art  thou  cast 
down,  O  my  soul?  and  why  art  thou  disquieted  within  me? 
Hope  thou  in  God ;  for  I  will  ever  praise  him,  who  is  the 
health  of  my  countenance  and  my  God."  Ahitophel,  his 
old  and  tried  counsellor,  devises  ruin  against  him ;  but  the 
young  Oriental  is  so  taken  up  with  the  magnificence  of  the 
Archite's  project,  that  he  waits  to  gather  all  Israel  together, 
for  the  sake  of  crushing  the  handful  of  heroes  and  veterans 
still  remaining  faithful  about  their  lawful  king,  and  thus 
gives  him  time  to  rally  his  exhausted  forces  for  battle  where 
skill  and  bravery  may  outdo  mere  force  and  numbers.  Ahi- 
tophel is  wise  to  hang  himself,  for  he  knows  all  is  lost  before 
the  war  is  fairly  begun. 

Myriads  upon  myriads  come  pouring  in  from  all  the  land, 


BATHSHEBA. 


149 


and  Absalom  soon  finds  himself  at  the  head  of  armies  out- 
numbering those  that  fell  before  Gibeon  when  "the  sun 
and  moon  stood  still  in  their  habitation,"  and  could  not  set 
from  the  sight  of  slaughter  for  the  space  of  a  whole  day. 
They  gather  in  the  forest  of  Ephraim,  and  draw  up  their 
unwieldy  phalanx  in  order  of  battle,  showing  their  files  im- 
mense in  depth,  and  spread  from  sky  to  sky,  bristling  of  arms 
that,  cowards  only  fear ;  while  nigh  at  hand  the  royal  forces 
form  in  triple  phalanx  and  spread  over  the  plain,  few  in 
number  but  skilful  in  war,  and  courageous  as  lions.  Not 
long  they  stand  and  gaze,  but  with  outrageous  noise  and 
shouts  that  rend  heaven's  concave,  come  to  battle,  where 
no  quarter  is  asked  or  given.  Earth  trembles  beneath  their 
tread.  As  a  storm  of  whirlwinds  and  mingled  thunder  rages 
to  uproot  the  mountain  oaks  and  rend  both  rocks  and  hills — 
as  flames  of  fire  that  roll  over  city  and  tower  and  forest— 
or  as  a  thousand  waves  that  foam  upon  the  shore,  to  pass 
their  sandy  barrier  and  lay  waste  the  land  of  some  sea-girt 
isle — so  loud,  so  vast,  so  threatening  the  hosts  of  the  rebel 
prince  come  to  battle  with  the  armory  of  David,  that  stand 
immutable  as  rocks  or  the  everlasting  hills.  Myriads  of 
swords  clash  upon  the  bossy  shields,  and  over  their  heads 
a  storm  of  winged  arrows  darkens  the  sun,  that  either  host 
contends  beneath  a  hazardous  shade.  A  thousand  chariots 
of  hooks,  with  a  sound  like  the  sea,  roll  upon  their  dreadful 
axles.  Ten  thousand  war-steeds  neigh  defiance  to  the 
trumpet,  and  trample  whole  squadrons  upon  the  dusty  plain. 
Blood  flows  in  rivers,  and  the  carcasses  of  men  and  steeds 
mingle  with  the  wrecks  of  chariots  and  shivered  arms  strew- 
ed over  the  fields. 

At  length  the  regicidal  crew,  wearied  with  slaughter,  turn 
their  backs  cowardly  to  flight.  Now  rise  tumults  and  hor- 
rors and  panic  fears,  and  utter  confusion  among  them,  and 
the  sword  of  every  man  is  against  his  fellow.  Over  heaps 
of  shields  and  helms  and  helmed  heads,  over  horses  and 
chariots  piled  in  disarray,  their  pale  and  doomed  hosts  roll 
in  vain.  Their  arrows  fall  from  their  hands  with  their 
bows  and  spears,  and  their  shields  are  thrown  away.  With 


150 


BATHSHEBA. 


clamors  and  curses  and  mutual  wounds,  they  climb  Orf« 
heaps  of  slain,  and  wade  through  seas  of  blood. 

The  sun  is  ready  to  sink  below  the  sea,  hastening  to 
escape  the  sight  of  blood ;  and  the  moist-eyed  moon  looks 
forth  from  the  east,  half-robed  in  clouds,  and  pale  as  if  with 
approaching  death.  But  no  less  terrible  upon  the  broken 
rear  of  their  foes  the  faithful  armies  hang,  and  their  shouts 
of  insult  and  victory  rend  the  sky.  At  length  they  cease 
with  the  approach  of  night,  and  leave  large  space  between 
their  phalanx  and  the  fainting  bands  of  the  fugitives.  The 
Most  High  bares  his  red  arm  from  heaven,  and  hurls  down 
amain  his  thunders  and  blasting  hail  in  a  whirlwind  that 
uproots  the  ancient  oaks,  and  prostrates  with  a  crash  whole 
forests  at  once  upon  the  foe.  In  hosts  they  perish,  and  en- 
cumber hill  and  plain  with  their  multitudes,  now  left  to  be 
torn  by  wild  beasts  and  all  birds  of  rapine.  The  rivers  swell 
and  choke  with  their  dead  bodies,  that  scarcely  they  find 
their  way  to  pass  into  the  sea,  and  Jordan  rolls  above  his 
tallest  banks  with  blood  and  water,  or  foams  gory  down  his 
thousand  cataracts  to  redden  the  Asphaltic  pool  with  heaps 
of  slaughter  upon  his  dangerous  shores. 

The  miserable  parricide  is  caught  by  his  dainty  hair  in 
the  boughs  of  a  spreading  oak,  and  hangs  like  another  Judas 
suspended  betwixt  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  ready  to  be 
slain  by  any  one  that  shall  find  him ;  nor  shall  it  be  long 
ere  Zeruiah's  son  shall  transfix  the  traitor  through  his  im- 
pious heart. 

But,  the  troubles  of  David's  house  are  not  ended.  Scarcely 
has  he  returned  to  Sion  and  restored  his  contested  throne  in 
its  ancient  place,  when  a  sedition  arises  concerning  the  peace, 
and  another  civil  war  rages  through  the  land ;  but  it  is  soon 
quelled  in  the  death  of  its  leader  at  Abel.  Three  years  of 
famine  come  over  the  nation  for  the  murder  of  the  men  of 
Gibeon  by  Saul,  and  seven  of  his  sons  must  bleed  under  the 
hands  of  the  executioner  before  it  can  cease.  The  Philistine 
impudence  raises  new  wars  fatal  to  the  remnant  of  the 
giants,  and  well  nigh  fatal  to  Jesse's  son.  Then  follows  the 
census  of  the  tribes — for  which  seventy  thousand  of  the  sons 


BATHSHEBA. 


151 


of  Israel  must  perish  beneath  the  blows  of  a  destroying  angel. 
Alas!  poor  Bathsheba,  shall  there  be  no  end?  Hard  is  her 
lot,  that,  like  another  Helen,  by  her  fatal  charms,  has  in- 
volved the  nation  in  a  labyrinth  of  woes.  Scarce  has  the 
smoke  of  fed  beasts  dispersed  from  the  altar  in  Moriah,  before 
another  sedition  arises  in  her  own  family,  and  the  son  of 
Haggith  lifts  up  a  standard  against  her  Solomon.  The 
high- priest  and  many  of  the  great  lords,  whom  the  intrigues 
of  Absalom  could  not  move,  are  in  the  plot,  and  nothing 
remains  but  the  executioner's  block  and  the  gibbet  for  her- 
self and  her  son,  with  all  his  adherents. 

But  this  storm  shall  blow  over  also,  and  carry  with  it  the 
confederates  of  the  usurper.  Zadok  the  priest  and  Nathan 
the  prophet,  and  Benaiah  the  son  of  Jehoiada,  with  the  men 
of  war,  anoint  Solomon  king  ;  and  long- afflicted  Bathsheba 
finds  in  her  latter  days  the  quiet  that  she  has  sought  in  vain 
since  she  relinquished  the  retirement  of  her  private  mansion 
to  be  the  star  of  the  royal  harem.  She  lives  to  behold  her 
son  the  most  magnificent  and  glorious  monarch  that  ever 
sat  upon  a  throne  ;  and  at  last,  full  of  years  and  of  honors, 
lays  down  her  beautiful  form  to  rest  in  the  quiet  of  the 
grave. 

Ah  !  who  shall  relate  what  kings  shall  rise  and  fall,  what 
virtues  or  what  crimes  shall  mark  their  lives,  and  what  glory 
or  infamy  awaits  them  in  the  opinion  of  mankind,  as  they 
live  their  brief  day,  and  each  come  in  turn  to  lie  down  and 
sleep  by  her  side  as  the  mother  of  all?  Her  son  shall  turn 
idolist  and  her  grandson  prove  a  fool — under  whose  stupid 
misrule  Jeroboam  shall  draw  away  ten  tribes  from  the  house 
of  David,  and  set  up  their  golden  calves  in  Bethel  and  in 
Dan,  until  the  Assyrians  lead  them  away  to  a  returnless 
captivity  beyond  Euphrates.  The  terrible  Sesonchis  shall 
come  also  to  avenge  the  wrong  of  his  sister,  the  imperial 
daughter  of  Pharaoh,  against  the  son  of  Naamah,  the  Am- 
monitish  devotee  to  absurd  Chemosh,  §md  plunder  the  trea- 
sures of  Sion  and  the  Temple,  for  the  honor  of  the  brutish 
Gods  by  the  Nile.  Few  indeed  shall  be  the  heirs  of  her  line 
hat  will  fear  God,  though  they  shall  know  when  Elias 


152 


TRUE  STANDARD  OF  MORALITY. 


ascends  the  heavens  in  a  whirlwind,  and  a  lawless  match 
with  the  daughter  of  Jezebel  shall  make  the  streets  of  Je- 
rusalem run  with  blood  through  centuries  of  tyranny.  But 
none  of  these  things  move  the  daughter  of  Eliam.  Herself 
repentant  and  forgiven,  and  filled  with  joy  of  the  beatific 
vision,  she  sits  innocent  of  their  wrongs,  and  congratulates 
the  race  that  shall  live  when  Messiah  comes  to  quiet  the 
earth  in  the  last  days. 


TRUE  STANDARD  OP  MORALITY. 


A  man's  moral  worth  is  not  to  be  graduated  by  his  nega- 
tive virtues — the  evil  he  merely  refrains  from  doing — but 
by  the  amount  of  temptation  he  overcomes.  He  is  not  to 
be  judged  by  his  defeats  alone,  but  also  by  his  victories. 
Many  a  man  passes  through  life  without  a  spot  on  his  charac- 
ter, who,  notwithstanding,  never  struggled  so  bravely  as  he 
who  fell  and  was  disgraced.  The  latter  may  have  called 
to  his  aid  more  principle,  overcome  more  evil,  before  he 
yielded,  than  the  former,  either  from  circumstances  or  his 
physical  constitution,  was  ever  called  to  do.  It  would  be 
as  unnatural,  it  would  require  as  great  an  effort  for  the  cold, 
phlegmatic,  and  passionless  being  to  be  vehement,  wild,  and 
headlong,  as  for  the  fiery  and  tempestuous  man  to  be  quiet 
and  emotionless. 

Victory  is  nothing:  it  depends  upon  the  nature  of  the 
conflict  and  the  odds  overcome.  Greater  generalship,  cooler 
bravery,  and  loftier  effort  may  be  shown  in  one  defeat,  than 
in  a  hundred  victories. 


gossiping;  or,  the  new  cashier. 


153 


"  It  was  the  same  story  ;  it  all  came  from  Mrs.  Lindsey," 
answered  her  friend.  "She  told  Mrs.  Allan,  who  told 
Mrs.  Johnson,  who  told  Mrs.  White,  who  told  Mrs.  Davis, 
and  she  told  me." 

"  Indeed  !r'  said  Mrs.  Wells,  with  an  astonished  expression 
of  countenance  peculiar  to  herself;  "indeed  !" 

What  a  racing  and  chasing  was  there  that  live-long  after^ 
noon  about  "  that  affair  "  of  Mr.  Frank  Williams  !  What 
a  commotion  in  eight  or  ten  feminine  hearts  (married  ones, 
too !)  of  which  he  was  unwittingly  the  cause !  Purple, 
brown,  and  stone-colored  cloaks  were  dodging  each  other 
in  all  directions  ;  and,  after  explanations  and  re-explanations 
by  scores,  everybody  shook  their  hands  free  of  the  matter, 
voting  that  Mrs.  Lindsey  was  the  guilty  person,  on  whom 
retribution  should  fall.  She  (unfortunate  woman !)  was 
sitting  quietly  at  home  in  pleasing  ignorance  of  all  this 
commotion,  when  Mrs.  Vernon,  with  a  peculiarly  pursed-up 
expression  of  countenance,  came  in.  Never  since  the  memory 
of  man,  or  woman  either,  had  her  friend  and  neighbor  looked 
so  awfully  solemn  and  rigidly  severe.  Mrs.  Lindsey  had 
not  heart  or  voice  enough  to  bid  her  "  good  evening ;"  she 
merely  motioned  her  to  a  seat,  and,  gazing  steadfastly  at 
her,  waited  for  her  to  begin. 

"  I  am  surprised,  Mrs.  Lindsey,"  at  length  said  the  lady, 
"  at  your  attacking  me  with  making  public  that  story  about 
Mr.  Williams,  when  you  have  informed  everybody  else  of  it 
as  well  as  myself."  Still,  Mrs.  Lindsey  said  nothing ;  she 
merely  looked  for  a  further  explanation. 

"  You  told  Mrs.  Allan,"  said  her  companion,  in  reply  to 
the  look,  "and  she  told  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  " 

"I  told  Mrs.  Allan?"  gasped  Mrs.  Lindsey,  at  length; 
"I  never  told  any  one  but  you." 

"What  !  not  one  Sunday,  coming  from  church?" 

A  sudden  light  glanced  upon  poor  Mrs.  Lindsey. 

"But  I  did  not  tell  her  anything,"  answered  she;  "1 
merely  hinted  at  something." 

"Well,  that  is  the  amount  of  it,"  said  her  friend;  "it  is 
a  hint  at  something  with  all  of  us,  and  none  of  us  know 


154  gossiping;  or,  the  new  cashier. 

i 

what  it  means ;  and  I,  for  my  part,  am  inclined  to  think 
the  whole  affair  is  but  a  child's  nonsense,  magnified  by  a 
very  timid,  nervous  woman." 

And  with  this  neighborly  speech  upon  her  lips,  Mrs.  Ver- 
non departed.  This  was  by  no  means  the  last  of  Mrs.  Lind- 
sey's  troubles  that  evening,  for  her  lord  and  master  came 
home  at  nine  o'clock,  in  a  towering  passion  about  the  same 
matter.  It  appeared  that  on  being  interrogated  by  Mr.  Frank 
Williams  as  to  the  cause  and  occasion  of  the  offence  he  ap- 
peared to  have  given  people  in  general,  his  friend,  Mr.  Max- 
well, had  told  him  honestly  that  it  was  something  which 
came  through  Mrs.  Lindsey,  which  she  had  heard,  she  be- 
lieved, from  her  husband  ;  and  what  the  "something"  was, 
she  nor  nobody  else  knew.  Convinced  that  there  was  some 
mistake — for  Mr.  Williams  was  not  apt  to  suspect  his  friends, 
and  Mr.  Lindsey  he  knew  was  his  friend — he  hastened  to 
that  gentleman,  and  asked  an  explanation.  For  a  moment 
Mr.  Lindsey  was  bewildered ;  he  was  as  ignorant  as  Wil- 
liams himself;  but  a  thought  of  Maggie  and  his  wife's  sus- 
picions on  that  evening  flashed  across  him. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  am  distressed  to  death 
that  this  has  happened.  I  understand  perfectly  what  it  is ; 
all  nonsense — silly  women,  silly  women." 

And  he  raced  home,  leaving  his  auditor,  if  possible,  more 
astonished  than  he  had  found  him.  Mr.  Lindsey  was  really 
furious,  and  his  meditations  on  the  way  home  as  to  all  Wil- 
liams had  suffered  in  consequence  of  his  wife's  gossip,  did 
not  serve  to  calm  his  feelings. 

"  And  so,  my  dear,"  said  he,  as  he  dashed  into  the  room, 
:'  you've  been  making  a  pretty  dish  for  yourself !" 

Mrs.  Lindsey  heard  in  silence,  while  her  spouse  walked 
up  and  down  the  room,  wondering  how  women  came  to  be 
such  fools,  and  his  wife  such  a  particular  one,  wishing  their 
tongues  were  in  the  charge  of  a  personage  not  to  be  named 
':  to  ears  polite,"  and  concluded  by  striding  up  to  his  terrified 
nelpmate,  and  asking  her  "  what  he  was  to  say  to  Mr.  Wil- 
liams, for  all  her  confounded  nonsense  ?" 


gossiping;  or,  the  new  cashier. 


155 


"But  he  has  done  something  dreadful — you  know  he 
Jias,"  she  sobbed,  at  length,  by  way  of  palliation. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  her  husband,  sternly. 

"  You  told  Mr.  Day  yourself,"  she  continued,  in  an  agony 
of  tears. 

"  Yes.  I  told  him,"  replied  her  husband,  "  that  Mr.  Ben- 
nett's silly  daughter  chose  to  fall  in  love  with  Williams, 
and,  as  her  flame  evidently  was  not  returned,  her  father 
was  very  glad  of  an  opportunity  of  getting  him  out  of  the 
way,  before  the  girl  made  a  fool  of  herself.  This  was  con- 
fided to  me  as  a  secret,  which,  was  the  reason  I  did  not 
tell  you  at  the  time,  for  I  know  very  well  what  a  secret  is 
in  the  hands  of  a  woman  ;  the  whole  race — even  my  little 
Maggie — can  keep  nothing  to  herself." 

In  spite  of  this  taunting  speech,  his  tone  softened,  and 
Mrs.  Lindsey  gained  courage. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "  that  I  have  made 
so  much  mischief,  but  there  is  no  use  groaning  over  it  now. 
I'll  endeavor  to  mend  it  as  far  as  possible.  I'll  tell  every- 
body that  it  was  a  mistake  of  mine,  and  take  the  blame  on 
my  own  unfortunate  shoulders  ;  besides  saying  everything 
necessary  and  appropriate  to  Mr.  Williams  himself." 

A  week  from  that  night  did  Mrs.  Lindsey  make  as  many 
graceful  and  apologetic  remarks  as  she  could  well  muster  to 
Mr.  Frank  Williams,  and  little  Maggie  showered  down  kisses 
and  tears  innumerable  on  his  cheeks.  He  went  from  there 
to  a  party,  where  all  the  young  ladies  in  town  lavished  on 
him  their  brightest  smiles  and  most  particular  attentions ; 
not  omitting  even  Miss  Gertrude  Vernon,  whose  lovely  blue 
eyes  followed  him  with  such  a  bewitching  and  bewildering 
interest  that  he  could  not  forbear  whispering — 

"  You'll  not  refuse  to  permit  me  to  escort  you  home?" 

"  Certainly  not,  Mr.  Williams,"  she  replied,  with  a  blush 
and  a  smile. 

"Never,  never  will  I  repeat  anything  that  I  hear  again," 
was  Mrs.  Lindsey's  concluding  exclamation  that  evening — 
"particularly  to  that  good-for-nothing  Mrs.  Vernon,"  she 
added,  mentally. 


N  G-    OF  SPRING-TIME. 


BY  C.  F.  HOFFMAN. 


Where  dost  thou  loiter,  Spring, 

While  it  behoveth 
Thee  to  cease  wandering 

Where'er  thou  roveth, 
And  to  my  lady  bring 

The  flowers  she  loveth. 

Come  with  thy  melting  skies, 
Like  her  cheek,  blushing ; 

Come  with  thy  dewy  eyes 
Where  founts  are  gushing; 

Come  where  the  wild  bee  hies 
When  dawn  is  flushing. 

Lead  her  where  by  the  brook 
The  first  blossom  keepeth ; 

Where,  in  the  sheltered  nook,  4 
The  callow  bud  sleepeth, 

Or,  with  a  timid  look, 

Through  its  leaves  peepeth. 

Lead  her  where  on  the  spray, 

Blithely  carolling, 
First  birds  their  roundelay 

For  my  lady  sing — 
But  keep,  where'er  she  stray, 

True  love  blossoming. 


"LIFE     IS  SWEET." 


BY  CATHARINE  M.  SEDGWICK. 


It  was  a  summer's  morning.  I  was  awakened  by  the 
rushing  of  a  distant  engine,  bearing  along  a  tide  of  men 
to  their  busy  day  in  a  great  city.  Cool  sea-breezes  stole 
through  the  pine-tree  embowering  my  dwelling ;  the  aro- 
matic pines  breathed  out  their  reedy  music  ;  the  humming- 
bird was  fluttering  over  the  honeysuckle  at  my  window; 
the  grass  glittered  with-dew-drops.  A  maiden  was  coming 
from  the  dairy  across  the  lawn,  with  a  silver  mug  of  new 
milk  in  her  hand ;  by  the  hand  she  led  a  child.  The 
young  woman  was  in  the  full  beauty  of  ripened  and  perfect 
womanhood.  Her  step  was  elastic  and  vigorous;  moderate 
labor  had  developed  without  impairing  her  fine  person. 
Her  face  beamed  with  intelligent  life,  conscious  power,  calm 
dignity,  and  sweet  temper. 

"How  sweet  is  life  to  this  girl !"  I  thought,  "as,  respect- 
ed and  respecting,  she  sustains  her  place  in  domestic  life,  dis- 
tilling her  pure  influences  into  the  little  creature  she  holds 
by  the  hand  !"  And  how  sweet  then  was  life  to  that  child  ! 
Her  little  form  was  so  erect  and  strong — so  firmly  knit  to 
outward  life — her  step  so  free  and  joyous — her  fair,  bright 
hair,  so  bright,  that  it  seemed  as  if  a  sunbeam  came  from  it*: 
it  lay  parted  on  that  brow,  where  an  infinite  capacity  had 
set  its  seal.  And  that  spiritual  eye— so  quickly  perceiving — 
so  eagerly  exploring  !  and  those  sweet,  red  lips — love,  and 
laughter,  and  beauty,  are  there.  Now  she  snatches  a  tuft 
of  flowers  from  the  grass — now  she  springs  to  meet  her 
playmate,  the  young,  frisky  dog — and  now  she  is  shouting 
playfully :  he  has  knocked  her  over,  and  they  are  rolling 
on  the  turf  together  ! 


158  LIFE   IS  SWEET. 

Before  three  months  passed  away,  she  had  lain  down  the 
beautiful  garments  of  her  mortality:  she  had  entered  the 
gates  of  immortal  life ;  and  those  who  followed  her  to  its 
threshold,  felt  that,  to  the  end,  and  in  the  end,  her  ministry 
had  been  most  sweet.  "  Life  is  sweet "  to  the  young,  with 
their  unfathomable  hopes,  their  unlimited  imaginings.  It 
is  sweeter  still  with  the  varied  realization.  Heaven  has 
provided  the  ever-changing  loveliness  and  mysterious  pro- 
cess of  the  outward  world  in  the  inspirations  of  art — in  the 
excitement  of  magnanimous  deeds — in  the  close  knitting  of 
affections — in  the  joys  of  the  mother — the  toils  and  harvest 
of  the  father — in  the  countless  blessings  of  hallowed  do- 
mestic life. 

"  Life  is  sweet "  to  the  seeker  of  wisdom,  and  to  the  lover 
of  science  ;  and  all  progress,  and  each  discovery,  is  a  joy  to 
them. 

"  Life  is  sweet "  to  the  true  lovers  of  their  race  ;  and  the 
unknown  and  unpraised  good  they  do  by  word,  or  look,  or 
deed,  is  joy  ineffable. 

But  not  alone  to  the  wise,  to  the  learned,  to  the  young, 
to  the  healthful,  to  the  gifted,  to  the  happy,  to  the  vigorous 
doer  of  good,  is  life  sweet :  for  the  patient  sufferer  it  has  a 
divine  sweetness. 

"What,"  I  asked  a  friend,  who  had  been  on  a  delicious 
country  excursion,  "  did  you  see  that  best  pleased  you  ?" 

My  friend  has  cultivated  her  love  of  moral,  more  than 
her  perception  of  physical  beauty ;  and  I  was  not  surprised 
when,  after  replying,  with  a  smile,  that  she  would  tell  me 
honestly,  she  went  on  to  say — 

>  "  My  cousin  took  me  to  see  a  man  who  had  been  a  clergy- 
man in  the  Methodist  connection.  He  had  suffered  from 
a  nervous  rheumatism,  and  from  a  complication  of  diseases, 
aggravated  by  ignorant  drugging.  Every  muscle  in  his 
body,  excepting  those  which  move  his  eyes  and  tongue, 
is  paralyzed.  His  body  has  become  as  rigid  as  iron.  His 
limbs  have  lost  the  human  form.  He  has  not  been  lain 
on  a  bed  for  seven  years.  He  suffers  acute  pain.  He  has 
invented  a  chair  which  affords  him  some  alleviation.  His 


FORBEAR  THAT  UNKIND  WORD. 


159 


feelings  are  fresh  and  kindly,  and  his  mind  is  unimpaired. 
He  reads  constantly.  His  book  is  fixed  in  a  frame  before 
him,  and  he  manages  to  turn  the  leaves  by  an  instrument 
which  he  moves  with  his  tongue.  He  has  an  income  of 
thirty  dollars  !  This  pittance,  by  the  vigilant  economy  of 
his  wife,  and  some  aid  from  kind,  rustic  neighbors,  bring 
the  year  round.  His  wife  is  the  most  gentle,  patient,  and 
devoted  of  loving  nurses.  She  never  has  too  much  to  do. 
to  do  all  well ;  no  wish  or  thought  goes  beyond  the  unvary- 
ing circle  of  her  conjugal  duty.  Her  love  is  as  abounding 
as  his  wants — her  cheerfulness  as  sure  as  the  rising  of  the 
sun.   She  has  not  for  years  slept  two  hours  consecutively. 

"1  did  not  know  which  most  to  reverence,  his  patience, 
or  hers — and  so  I  said  to  them.  '  Ah  !'  said  the  good  man, 
with  a  most  serene  smile,  £  life  is  still  sweet  to  me :  how 
can  it  but  be  so  with  such  a  wife  V  " 

And  surely  life  is  sweet  to  her,  who  feels  every  hour  of 
the  day  the  truth  of  this  gracious  acknowledgment. 

Oh,  ye,  who  live  amidst  alternate  sunshine  and  showers 
of  plenty,  to  whom  night  brings  sleep,  and  daylight  fresh- 
ness— ye  murmurers  and  complainers,  who  fret  in  the  har- 
ness of  life,  till  it  gall  you  to  the  bone — who  recoil  at  the 
lightest  burden,  and  shrink  from  a  passing  cloud — consider 
the  magnanimous  sufferer,  my  friend  described,  and  learn 
the  divine  art  that  can  distil  sweetness  from  the  bitterest 
cup  ! 


FORBEAR    THAT    UNKIND  WORD 


Forbear  ! — breathe  not  that  unkind  word, 

That  trembles  on  thy  thoughtless  tongue  ; 
Know'st  thou  how  many  a  faithful  heart 

To  sudden  anger  it  hath  stung? 
Hast  thou  a  care  save  for  thyself? 

Hast  thou  a  thought  of  pity  born? 
Then  check  thy  own  rebellious  heart — 

Plant  thou  the  rose,  and  stay  the  thorn. 


THE    WAY    TO    BE  BRAVE. 


Speak  kindly  to  that  poor  old  man — 

Pick  up  his  fallen  cane, 
And  place  it  gently  in  his  hand, 

That  he  may  walk  again. 
His  bundle,  too,  replace  with  care 

Beneath  his  trembling  arm ; 
Brave  all  the  taunts  that  you  may  hear, 

To  give  his  life  a  charm. 

A  braver  deed  than  scorners  boast 

Will  be  your  triumph  then — 
A  braver  deed  than  annals  tell, 

Of  some  distinguished  men. 
Yes,  leave  that  thoughtless,  sneering  crowd; 

Dare  to  be  good  and  kind  ; 
Then  let  them  laugh,  as  laugh  they  may, 

Pass  on,  but  never  mind. 

Pass  on ;  but  think  once  more  of  him,  „ 

The  wreck  that  you  have  seen, 
How  once  a  happy  child  like  you 

He  sported  on  the  green  ; 
A  cloudless  sky  above  his  head, 

The  future  bright  and  fair, 
And  friends  all  watching  o'er  his  couch, 

To  breathe  affection's  prayer. 

But,  ah,  the  change  !    He  wanders  now, 

Forsaken,  lone,  and  sad — 
Thrice  blessed  is  the  task  of  those 

Who  strive  to  make  him  glad. 
Speak  kindly  to  that  poor  old  man — 

Pick  up  his  fallen  cane, 
For  that  will  ease  his  burdened  heart, 

And  make  him  smile  again. 


FUGITIVE  THOUGHTS. 


From  "  Fancies  of  a  Whimsical  3Ian." 


Ah,  dear !  The  last  leaf  of  the  last  rose  of  that  sweet 
bouquet,  that  my  sweeter  little  coz  gave  me,  has  fallen ; 
and  nought  remains  hut  a  shrivelled  and  discolored  mass, 
which  is  only  fit  to  be  thrown  into  the  highway,  there  to 
be  trampled  under  the  hoofs  of  horses,  or  ransacked  by  the 
snouts  of  filthy  swine  ! 

Well,  is  it  not  all  right?  Poor  things,  they  had  their 
day — their  little  day  of  beauty  and  of  fragrance,  and  they 
are  off.  They  fulfilled  their  destiny.  They  delighted  the 
eye.  They  regaled  the  nose.  They  told  their  story  pret- 
tily. They  conveyed  their  sentiment  charmingly.  They 
had  their  moral  uses,  too,  for  they  helped  strengthen  that 
bond  of  love  which  should  ever  bind  kindred  together.  Ah, 
if  we  all  played  our  parts  as  faithfully  in  this  world,  what 
a  happy  one  it  would  be  ! 

But  to  think  that  the' fair  eyes  that  gazed  upon  them,  the 
fair  hands  that  gathered  them,  have  got  to  take  the  same 
dreary  road  !  And  that  I,  the  whimsical,  irritable  recipient 
of  them,  must  do  likewise ;  and  that  all  who  are  now  mo- 
ving about  the  earth,  be  they  creeping  babes.,  or  romping 
children,  or  gliding  maidens,  or  tottering  old  men,  are  on 
the  same  sad  way  to  dusty  death  !  Oh,  is  it  not  frightful 
to  think  of  the  incessant,  the  infinitely  varied  dishes,  that 
are  thus  eternally  served  up  at  the  ever-spread  table  of  those 
grim  gourmands,  those  merciless  epicures,  the  worms  ! 

But  why  take  this  gloomy  view  of  the  subject?  Would 
you  have  it  otherwise  ?  Isn't  this  the  best  arrangement, 
after  all,  for  our  own  happiness  ?  Who  would  be  willing 
to  see  out  his  second  century  on  earth,  if  he  could,  even, 


162  FUGITIVE  THOUGHTS. 

with  all  his  faculties  unimpaired,  the  comforts  of  life  all 
secured  to  him,  and  an  unfailing  circle  of  friends,  into  the 
bargain.  No  man.  Long  before  his  time  came,  he  would  be 
eager,  anxious,  crazy  to  be  off.  Why  shouldn't  he  ?  What 
should  keep  him?  The  only  decent  excuse  for  staying, 
would  be  a  wish  to  continue  his  labors  of  love  to  his  brethren. 
And  when  has  the  man  appeared  on  the  planet,  so  righteous 
that  he  could  honestly  urge  such  a  plea  ?  or  the  hypocrite, 
so  unblushing,  that  he  would  have  the  face  to  allege  it  ? 
And  as  to  the  other  inducements — the  pleasures,  pomps, 
and  vanities  of  life — one  century  is  quite  enough  to  sift  them 
in;  and  to  feel  their  unsatisfactory  hollowness.  The  toys 
of  ambition,  what  are  they,  after  all,  but  a  mere  folio  edition, 
as  it  were,  of  those  of  the  nursery  ?  Knowledge,  to  be  sure, 
remains ;  but  its  treasures,  so  far  as  they  are  within  mortal 
grasp,  would  have  been  secured  long  ere  then ;  while  those 
others,  of  which  Death  keeps  the  keys,  would  have  been 
teazing,  more  and  more,  each  day,  our  impatient  curiosity. 
Who  will  deny  this?  Surely,  a  hundred  years'  faithful 
study  would  bring  all  earth's  sciences  at  our  feet.  As  with 
the  languages,  so  with  them  ;  the  thorough  knowledge  of 
some  three  or  four,  would  make  the  subjugation  of  all  the 
rest,  comparative  child's  play ;  and  thus,  our  very  acqui- 
sitions would,  long  ere  our  lease  had  expired,  have  made  us 
all  the  more  restless,  and  impatient  for  our  flight. 

This  is  all  very  well,  you  say ;  and  a  delightful  thing 
it  would  be,  if  we  could  take  that  same  flight,  bodily,  to 
some  other  planet.  But  as  for  that  horrible  under-land 
journey,  ugh !  there's  no  getting  reconciled  to  it !  This 
being  boxed  up,  and  nailed  down,  and  put  away,  with  the 
comfortable  conviction  that  the  invading  worms  are  sure  to 
overhaul  you  at  last — you,  and  your  kindred  ;  to  think  that 
the  eyes  you  have  so  loved  to  gaze  on,  the  lips  upon  whose 
accents  you  have  hung  so  fondly,  should  be  thus  desecrated, 
thus  brutally  devoured ;  there  is  no  getting  over  it,  or  round 
it.  These  are  the  things  that  make  us  shudder  so.  and 
shiver,  that  make  us  hang  on  so  tenaciously  to  "earth,  and 
earth-born  jars  !" 


FUGITIVE  THOUGHTS. 


163 


You  are  wrong  again,  my  dear  boy.  You  have  no  right 
to  talk  or  feel  thus.  What,  take  the  body  with  us  to  the 
other  world  ?  Oh,  no.  We  want  something  a  great  deal 
better  in  every  way,  and  more  worthy  of  the  glorious  sphere 
of  action  that  awaits  us  ;  a  vision  more  telescopic,  hearing 
more  acute ;  all  our  faculties  more  penetrating,  and  more 
serviceable.  This  inefficient,  unseemly,  unsavory  old  body, 
why  it  would  be  as  much  out  of  place  in  the  new  and  lofty 
scenes  in  which  we  are  to  appear,  as  Cinderella's  old  kitchen 
dress  would  have  been  at  the  ball.  No,  no.  Depend  upon 
it,  the  present  arrangements  are  altogether  the  wisest  and 
the  kindest  for  us,  and  the  sooner  we  are  reconciled  to  them 
the  better. 

It  is  this  very  perishableness,  indeed,  that  gives  half  their 
zest  to  the  joys  of  earth.  The  wife  of  one's  bosom,  the  chil- 
dren that  frolic  about  one's  fireside,  could  we  love  them  as 
we  do,  but  for  the  fear  and  dread  that  are  forever  mingling 
with  that  love  ;  the  ever-present  sense  of  the  frail  nature  of 
the  tie  that  holds  us  together,  that  any  moment,  any  paltry 
casualty,  may  snap  asunder?  Were  it  otherwise,  where 
would  all  these  happy  couples,  these  fond  parents,  these 
good  children  be,  at  the  end  of  a  little  twelvemonth  ?  Alas, 
for  poor  human  nature,  who  does  not  feel  that  love  would 
be  a  sad  loser,  by  any  change  of  dispensation?  Were  an 
angel  to  appear  to-morrow,  and  announce,  by  authority  from 
Heaven,  that  for  the  next  five  years  there  should  be  no 
separations  whatever  in  the  existing  families  of  earth,  what 
would  be  the  result  ?  Unwise  and  wicked  as  such  conduct 
would  be,  yet  dare  any  candid  man  or  woman  deny  that 
we  should  have  a  hundred-fold  greater  amount  of  heart- 
burnings, jarrings,  bickerings,  wranglings,  than  will  probably 
come  off  under  the  present  arrangements  ? 

Those  same  flowers,  too,  that  I  was  so  disposed  to  bewail, 
and  grow  sentimental  over ;  suppose  they  had  been  of  wax, 
or  of  feathers — gifts  that  they  were — would  they  not  soon 
have  degenerated  into  downright  impertinences  ?  Would  I 
not  have  been  compelled,  in  mere  self-defense,  to  have  stow- 
ed them  away  in  some  dark  corner  or  other?    To  be  sure, 


J  64 


FUGITIVE  THOUGHTS. 


there  might  have  been  other  reasons  for  such  a  course. 
There  is  an  intrinsic  atrocity  about  all  wax-work.  There 
is  no  living  with  it,  either  in  the  shape  of  flower,  fruit,  or 
hero.  It  makes  me  shudder,  even  now,  to  think  of  a  waxen 
libel  on  Zachary  Taylor,  that  I  saw  in  a  menagerie  yester- 
day !  Pretty  notions  of  art,  and  of  *  patriotism,  must  the 
wretch  have  had  who  perpetrated  it !  Were  I  its  proprietor, 
it  should  see  the  bottom  of  our  noble  bay  before  sunset. 
I  dare  say,  the  very  sturgeons  themselves  would  put  to  sea 
in  their  fright  !  That  hideous  Witch  of  Endor,  too,  in  the 
Museum  !  How  many  sleepless  nights  did  that  infamous 
hag  of  wax  cost  me,  when  a  child !  Out  upon  it.  in  all  its 
manifestations  !  It  is  only  fit  to  be  banged  about  in  dolls 
by  naughty  girls. 

But  had  this  love-token,  this  pretty  mingling  of  buds  and 
roses,  been  an  imitation  of  any  kind,  the  result  would  have 
been  the  same.  The  eye  would  soon  have  wearied  of  them. 
The  fraud  would  have  been  resented,  and  the  miserable 
pretenders  would  have  been  brushed  aside  in  disgust.  But 
the  sweet,  fugitive,  perishing  originals,  be  they  flowers,  or 
their  fair  gatherers,  they  know  too  well,  alas,  the  way  to 
these  same  wayward  hearts  of  ours  ! 

The  very  Constitution  of  our  country — could  we  love  it, 
could  we  fight  for  it.  but  for  the  continually  recurring  feeling 
of  its  frail,  perishing  nature?  What  man  would  raise  a 
finger  in  its  defense,  did  he  not  know,  ay,  and  take  comfort 
in  the  knowledge,  that  it  must  be  overtaken,  at  last,  by 
decay  and  dissolution  ?  Esto  perpetua  is  a  mere  rhetorical 
embellishment,  not  the  language  of  the  heart.  Let  it  have 
a  thousand  years,  if  you  will,  of  wise  and  beneficent  action, 
but  let  it  not  fondly  seek  to  escape  those  elements  of  corrup- 
tion and  of  death,  that  must  and  will  inhere  in  all  human 
things. 

That  miniature  cobweb,  hung  with  dew-drops,  that  look- 
ed so  beautifully  as  it  lay  spread  out  upon  the  boxen  bor- 
der, in  the  garden,  this  morning,  with  its  strings  of  fairy 
pearls  and  diamonds  ;  where  would  its  beauty  have  been, 
had  it  remained  there  all  day?    Was  it  not  the  very  feeling 


FUGITIVE  THOUGHTS.  165 

that  the  first  warm  glance  of  the  sun  would  melt  it  into  air, 
that  gave  it  half  its  lustre? 

And  so  with  all  other  things  under  that  sun,  be  they  pas- 
sions or  the  objects  of  them.  Eternal  love,  unfading  joy, 
unalterable  constancy  !  These  phrases  sound  charmingly, 
do  they  not,  from  the  lips  of  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  but  suppose 
these  same  devoted  lovers  had  been  spared  to  a  good  old 
age — had  kept  company  together  for  half  a  century  or  so — 
how  would  matters  have  probably  stood  with  them  then? 
With  those  ardent  Italian  temperaments  of  theirs — with  that 
liquid  language,  too,  which  affords  such  amazing  facilities 
for  scolding  and  objurgation,  as  well  as  for  love-prattle — 
with  those  unpleasant  reminiscences  of  hereditary  feuds, 
that  wilty  nilly  would  come  up  occasionally  to  annoy  them ; 
can  there  be  any  doubt,  that,  had  they  lived,  they  would 
have  had  their  full  proportion  of  family  jars?  Oh,  it  was 
far  better  for  all  parties  that  things  turned  out  just  as  they 
did,  for  the  lovers,  poet,  readers.  To  be  sure,  Juliet  was 
cheated  out  of  a  baker's  dozen  or  so,  of  little  Montagues, 
and  the  name  of  Romeo  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  pages  of 
the  Yerona  Directory  of  that  period  ;  but,  oh,  will  it  not  live 
in  endless  glory  on  the  unfading  page  of  Shakspeare  ? 

The  more  one  dwells  upon  it,  the  more  anomalous,  the 
more  monstrous  does  this  idea  of  running  away  from  death 
appear.  Who,  indeed,  would  give  up  the  glorious  privilege 
of  dying?  Who  would  consent  to  remain  here,  a  perpetual 
prisoner  in  this  insignificant  corner  of  the  universe  ?  What 
would  you  think  of  a  man  who  should  wilfully  persist  in 
locking  himself  up  all  his  days  in  Berghen  or  Communipaw, 
without  paying  a  solitary  visit,  nay,  without  casting  a  single 
glance  across  the  bay  at  this  great  metropolis  of  ours  ?  It 
is,  indeed,  difficult  to  conceive  of  a  being  so  unenterprising. 
But,  to  take  a  case  a  little  more  within  the  compass  of  pro- 
bability— what  sort  of  respect  could  you  have  for  the  indi- 
vidual, who,  having  means  and  leisure,  and  a  lurking  desire 
withal,  to  visit  the  Old  World,  should  yet  allow  himself  to 
be  cheated  out  of  the  privilege  by  the  paltry  dread  of  sea- 
sickness ?    And  are  we  not  just  as  pusillanimous,  whom 


166 


UNDYING  LOVE. 


the  miserable  fear  of  death  makes  hug  our  chains,  and  cling 
to  earth  as  we  do,  and  ignobly  turn  our  backs  upon  the 
"all  hail,  hereafter?" 

No,  no.  Defraud  me  not  of  my  mortality.  Let  me  go 
through  the  regular  course  prescribed  for  man.  Let  me 
welcome,  as  they  come,  the  grey  hairs  and  the  advancing 
years.  Let  my  eyes  grow  dim,  and  my  knees  fail  me.  Let 
me  totter,  and  fall,  at  last,  and  go  down  to  my  grave.  Let 
my  flesh  become  a  banquet  for  worms,  and  my  bones  sub- 
side into  the  dust  from  which  they  sprang.  Let  me  play 
out  the  play,  epilogue  and  all,  to  the  very  letter.  Let  me 
not  be  cheated  out  of  any  of  the  genuine,  legitimate  expe- 
riences of  life. 

Or,  if  Death  come  somewhat  out  of  season — if  he  antici- 
pate his  mission  by  a  few  years — if  he  surprise  me  in  the 
noontide  of  life,  in  the  midst  of  all  its  busy  plans,  and  high 
hopes,  and  warm  affections, — still  let  me  not  wilfully  mis- 
interpret and  pervert  the  spirit  of  that  mission.  Why  treat 
the  gracious  messenger  as  if  he  were  some  paltry  bailiff? 
Why  dress  him  up  in  grotesque  terrors  ?  Why,  why  make 
a  scarecrow,  bugbear,  enemy  of  him,  whom  God  designed 
as,  at  once,  our  teacher,  guide,  and  friend  ? 


UNDYING  LOVE. 


I  have  stood  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 

And  lingered  in  the  vale, 
And  heard  the  balmy  zephyr's  sigh, 

And  roarings  of  'the  gale  ; 
Yet  still  one  image  filled  my  mind, 

And  blends  with  all  I  see  ; 
And  truth  compels  that  heart  to  say, 

That  image  is  of  thee. 

And  in  my  heart's  remotest  cell, 

Despite  of  grief  or  care, 
Though  sorrow's  storms  against  me  beat, 

Affection  will  be  there  ! 
Or,  if  in  utter  sorrow  bowed, 

By  fate's  unkind  decree, 
I,  in  a  fond  and  hopeful  faith, 

Shall  ever  think  on  thee. 


TO  MAY. 


Come,  gentle  May ! 
Come  with  thy  robe  of  flowers, 
Come  with  thy  sun  and  sky,  thy  clouds  and  showers; 

Come,  and  bring  forth  unto  the  eye  of  day, 
From  their  imprisoning  and  mysterious  night, 
The  buds  of  many  hues,  the  children  of  thy  light. 

Come,  wondrous  May ! 
For,  at  the  bidding  of  thy  magic  wand, 
Quick  from  the  caverns  of  the  breathing  land, 

In  all  their  green  and  glorious  array 
They  spring,  as  spring  the  Persian  maids,  to  hail 
Thy  flushing  footsteps  in  Cashmerian  vale. 

Come,  vocal  May  ! 
Come  with  thy  train,  that  high 
On  some  fresh  branch  pour  out  their  melody ; 

Or,  carolling  thy  praise  the  live-long  day, 
Sit  perched  in  some  lone  glen,  on  echo  calling, 
'Mid  murmuring  woods  and  musical  waters  falling. 

Come,  sunny  May ! 
Come  with  thy  laughing  beam, 
What  time  the  lazy  mist  melts  on  the  stream, 
Or  seeks  the  mountain-top  to  meet  thy  ray, 
Ere  yet  the  dew-drop  on  thine  own  soft  flower 
Hath  lost  its  light,  or  died  beneath  his  power. 

Come,  holy  May  ! 
When  sunk  behind  the  cold  and  western  hill, 
His  light  hath  ceased  to  play  on  leaf  and  rill, 
And  twilight's  footsteps  hasten  his  decay; 
Come  with  thy  musings,  and  my  heart  shall  be 
Like  a  pure  temple,  consecrate  to  thee. 


THE  THREE  CALLERS. 


Come,  beautiful  May ! 
Like  youth  and  loveliness, 
Like  her  I  love ;  oh,  come  in  thy  full  dress — 

The  drapery  of  dark  winter  cast  away 
To  the  bright  eye  and  the  glad  heart  appear, 
Queen  of  the  spring,  and  mistress  of  the  year ! 

Yet,  lovely  May ! 
Teach  her  whose  eye  shall  rest  upon  this  rhyme, 
To  spurn  the  gilded  mockeries  of  time, 

The  heartless  pomp  that  beckons  to  betray, 
And  keep,  as  thou  wilt  find,  that  heart  each  year, 
Pure  as  thy  dawn,  and  as  thy  sunset  clear. 

And  let  me  too,  sweet  May  ! 
Let  thy  fond  votary  see, 
As  fa  }e  thy  beauties,  all  the  vanity 

Of  this  world's  pomp ;  then  teach,  that  though  decay 
In  his  short  winter,  bury  beauty's  frame, 

In  fairer  worlds  the  soul  shall  break  his  sway — 
Another  spring  shall  bloom  eternal  and  the  same. 


THE    THREE  CALLERS. 


Morn  calleth  fondly  to  a  fair  boy  straying 
'Mid  golden  meadows,  rich  with  clover  dew: 

She  calls — but  he  still  thinks  of  nought,  save  playing; 
And  so  she  smiles,  and  waves  him  an  adieu! 

Whilst  he,  still  merry  with  his  flowery  store, 

Dreams  not  that  Morn,  sweet  Morn,  returns  no  more ! 

Noon  cometh — but  the  boy,  to  manhood  growing, 
Heeds  not  the  time ;  he  sees  but  one  sweet  form — 

One  young,  fair  face,  from  bower  of  jessamine  flowing, 
And  all  his  loving  heart  with  bliss  is  warm. 

So  Noon,  unnoticed,  seeks  the  western  shore, 

And  man  forgets  that  Noon  returns  no  more ! 

Night  tappeth  gently  at  a  casement  gleaming 
With  the  thin  fire-light,  flickering  faint  and  low; 

By  which  a  grav-haired  man  is  sadly  dreaming 
O'er  pleasures  gone — as  all  life's  pleasures  go. 

Night  calls  him  to  her — and  he  leaves  his  door 

Silent  and  dark- — and  he  returns  no  more ! 


THE   VOYAGE    OF  LIFE. 

A  DRAMA,  IN  FOUR  PARTS. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 

PART  I  INFANCY. 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 

He  comes,  the  beautiful  stranger, 

From  life's  soft  rosy  cave, 
To  a  contest  full  of  danger, 

That  ends  but  with  the  grave. 
Joys  and  hopes  shall  invite  him, 

That  smile  but  to  betray  ; 
Griefs  and  woes  shall  affright  him 

Along  his  dubious  way. 
God  and  good  angels  shall  shield  him 

From  perils  else  too  strong, 
That  danger  and  sorrow  may  yield  him 

A  never-ending  song. 
Strew  ye  the  way  with  roses  and  every  sweetest  bloom, 
For  short  shall  prove  his  passage  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 

The  seal  of  heaven  is  on  his  brow, 
And  sprinkled  waters — emblem  of  pure  life  above — 

Have  touched  his  forehead  now ; 
So  shall  he  joy  forever  in  the  realms  of  peace  and  love. 
But  first  must  be  past 
The  sharp  temptations  of  this  earthly  life, 

Till  Death's  iron  gates  at  last 
Receive  him  victor  in  the  dubious  strife. 
Then  strew  the  way  with  roses  and  every  sweetest  bloom, 
For  short  shall  prove  his  passage  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 

Fiends  shall  weave  snares  about  him, 
And  the  false  world  set  forth  her  lures ; 

Wars  and  hatreds  rage  without  him, 
And  fears  within,  that  scarce  endures 


154 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 


The  mightiest,  tho'  aided  of  supernal  power ; 
But  vain  shall  pleasure  lure  him — in  vain  shall  sorrow  lower, 
For  strong  shall  be  his  Helper  in  each  distressful  hour. 
Then  strew  the  way  with  roses  and  every  sweetest  bloom, 
For  short  shall  prove  his  passage  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 


PART  II.  — YOUTH. 

SOLO. 

O  what  ecstacy !  what  joy ! 

Spirits  of  earth,  and  spirits  of  air, 
Revel  in  bliss  without  alloy ; 

Dance  we  and  sing,  dissolved  from  care. 

CHORUS. 

Have  a  care,  O  precious  child ! 

Earthly  bliss — deceitful  shows; 
Morn  may  break  serene  and  mild, 

But  grief  may  shade  it  ere  it  close. 

SOLO. 

O  what  bliss  is  everywhere ! 
Trees  are  blossoming,  founts  are  flowing, 
Skies  are  smiling,  Spring  is  blowing, 

Fragrance  breathes  thro'  all  the  air. 
Lambs  are  frolicking,  doves  are  cooing, 
Nymphs  are  smiling,  swains  are  wooing, 

Birds  are  singing  o'er  field  and  spray, 
Flocks  are  gamboling,  herds  are  dancing, 
Bees  are  honeying,  streams  are  glancing : 

Come  to  the  fields  away !  away ! 

CHORUS. 

May  has  flowers,  but  serpents  hide  them 

Under  sweetest  blooms  of  Spring; 
Summer  has  fruits — but  woe  betide  them 
Who  forget  that  honey  has  a  sting ! 
Have  a  care,  O  precious  child ! 
And  look  beyond  the  things  of  sense  and  time ; 

For  truest  bliss,  where  angel  virtues  mild 
Beckon  to  choose  a  fairer,  happier  clime. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE- 


SOLO. 

Still  let  me  love  the  sweets  of  earth. 

And  gather  roses  in  their  prime ; 
For  this  becomes  our  heavenly  birth, 

To  taste  all  pleasures  in  their  time. 

CHORUS. 

Beware,  lest  joying  in  the  things  of  earth, 
The  heart  grown  hard,  forget  its  heavenly  birth, 
And  then — too  late — thou  rue  the  days  of  mirth. 

SOLO. 

Bring  roses  and  myrtles  and  every  sweet  bloom, 

For  short  is  our  pathway  that  leads  to  the  tomb. 

Leave  sad  thoughts  to  greybeards! — Away!  friends,  away  ! 

Let  us  joy  while  we  live — for  our  life 's  but  a  day ! 

CHORUS. 

Ah !  fond  youth,  our  life  shall  not  end  with  the  tomb, 
But  springs  up  beyond,  there  eternal  to  bloom ; 
Nor  dies  in  heaven's  pure  light  or  hell's  deepest  gloom. 
This  only  is  life,  to  rejoice  in  our  time, 
And  ever  remember  our  soul's  native  clime. 
Earth's  fairest  delights  will  but  pall  on  our  taste, 
And  what  seem'd  an  Eden,  is  found  but  a  waste. 
For  bliss  never  failing  we  look  to  the  skies — 
There,  child  of  a  short  day,  to  glory  arise ! 

SOLO. 

O  twine  me  a  wreath  of  fair  posies, 
Of  violets,  and  pinks,  and  red  roses : 
So  bright  and  so  sweet,  but  so  transient  and  frail, 
Let  us  joy  in  their  light,  and  their  fragrance  inhale, 
Ere  this  fair-waking  dream  of  life  closes ! 

SOLO. 

Let  us  haste  to  the  cavy  mountains ! 
Let  us  drink  from  the  sparkling  fountains ! 
Let  us  rove  o'er  hill  and  field  and  grove ! 
Let  us  drink  our  fill  of  joy  and  love ! 
Mirth  wakes,  music  swells,  hearts  are  bounding, 
Fair  eyes  laugh,  flowers  breathe,  leaves  in  sunlight  are  glancing, 
Streams  murmur,  with  songs  earth  is  sounding, 
Birds  carol,  bees  hum,  trees  are  dancing. 


156 


THE   VOYAGE  OP  LIFE. 


SOLO. 

Come  o'er  the  sea  and  land, 
And  dance  on  the  sand, 
Ye  fairies  of  my  vision  true, 
The  mermaid  trills  her  song  for  you. 
O  what  ecstacy !  O  what  joy ! 

Spirits  of  earth  and  spirits  of  air, 
Revel  in  bliss  without  alloy; 
Dance  we  and  sing,  dissolved  from  care 

CHORUS. 

O  thou  Most  Holy  One, 

That  heaven  hast  for  thy  throne, 

Thou  that  for  man  hast  won 

Life  from  the  grave ! 

Guard  thou  this  precious  youth  ! 
Let  angels  full  of  ruth 
Guide  him  to  paths  of  truth ! 

Listen,  and  save ! 

Vain  is  all  help  of  man. 
Whose  life  is  but  a  span ; 
None  but  Man's  Maker  can 

Ransom  the  slave ! 

Draw  him  from  earth's  false  charm, 
Nor  let  hell's  spirits  harm 
This  child  of  thy  right  arm : 

Listen,  and  save ! 

So  will  we  praise  and  sing 
Thee,  Everlasting  King, 
And  costliest  tribute  bring 

To  thy  blest  shrine. 

Ancient  of  endless  days, 
That  dwell'st  in  sightless  blaze, 
Hear  the  low  songs  we  raise, 
Saviour  divine ! 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 


PART  III.  —  MANHOOD. 

CHORUS. 

Hark !  the  solemn  bell  is  tolling 

O'er  the  grave  of  those  we  love ! 
Voices  from  the  dead  are  calling — 

"  Mortals  !  seek  your  rest  above !" 
Earth  affords  no  bliss  unfailing, 

Tho'  we  seek  it  all  our  days; 
Mirth  shall  end  in  tears  and  wailing : 

Heav'n  to  life  our  souls  can  raise. 

SOLO. 

Why  should  the  thought  of  death  alarm  us, 

In  life's  full  day  and  manhood's  prime? 
Nay,  'gainst  all  fear  young  Hope  shall  arm  us, 
While  cowards  die  oft  before  their  time. 
Let  greybeards  muse  on  Acheron's  dark  waves, 
And  count  the  ghosts  glide,  round  their  several  graves. 

Hark !  hark  !  'tis  the  signal  horn ! 

Uprouse  ye,  huntsmen,  merry  and  free ! 
When  breaks  the  first  dawning  of  morn, 
To  the  chase,  to  the  chase  away ! 
Hark!  hark!  the  hollow  woods  are  sounding! 
O'er  hill,  o'er  dale,  o'er  stream,  o'er  lake, 
The  voice  of  the  huntsman  makes  Echo  awake, 
And  the  wild  stag  is  joyously  bounding ! 
Tally-ho!  Tally-ho! 
Our  steeds  smell  the  strife  from  afar, 
And  the  deep-mouthed  bay  of  the  rushing  hounds 
From  the  thicket's  green  mazes  resounds : 
Tally-ho!  Tally-ho! 
To  the  horn's  joyous  call  loud  and  clear ! 

Some  love  o'er  wavy  seas  to  roam ; 

Some  dig  for  gold  in  Peruvian  mines ; 
Some  call  the  hot.  crowded  city  their  home ; 

Some  lie  stretch'd  in  shade  of  mantling  vines. 


CHORUS. 

Tally-ho!  Tally-ho! 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 


SOLO. 

But  the  life  of  a  hunter  bold,  boundless,  and  free, 
And  a  home  in  the  woods,  my  brave  comrades,  for  me 

CHORUS. 

O  the  life  of  a  hunter,  bold,  boundless,  and  free, 
And  a  home  in  the  woods !  jolly  comrades  are  we ! 

CHORUS  OF  GUARDIAN  SPIRITS. 

Ah  !  what  shall  guide  his  wayward  feet 
To  lay  hold  of  the  paths  of  peace  ? 

To  shield  his  soul  from  hell's  deceit, 
And  bring  him  joys  that  never  cease  ? 

SOLO. 

Heroes  and  arms  my  soul  inspire ! 
My  frame  consumes  with  martial  fire ! 
Rush  on,  ye  nobly  brave, 
To  glory  or  the  grave ! 
Raise  high  the  battle  cry, 
To  rend  the  earth  and  sky  ! 
Man  against  man  they  set  in  thousand  rows, 
Each  both  in  rage  and  valor  equal  sharing. 
Hark !  with  what  sounds  of  war  the  legions  close 
In  fight  blood  red — all  peril  nobly  daring! 

CHORUS. 

Helms  are  gleaming, 
Banners  are  streaming, 
Plumes  are  shaking, 
Earth  is  quaking, 
Swords  are  clashing, 
Spears  are  flashing, 
Wheels  are  crashing, 
Steeds  are  neighing, 
Clarions  are  braying, 
Drums  are  rolling,  fifes  are  screaming, 
Cannon  are  booming,  bayonets  are  gleaming, 
Shells  are  bursting,  rockets  are  blazing, 
Heroes  are  shouting,  and  steeds  are  crazing 
To  bear  their  riders  thro'  the  thickest  fight, 
While  all  are  wrapt  in  smoke  and  gloomy  night ! 
Rush  on !  rush  on !  ye  nobly  brave ! 
Rush  on  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 


CHORUS. 

O  Father,  attend  us  !  on  thee  we  call, 
While  he  stands  'mid  tho  smoke  and  the  cannon's  loud  boom 
And  lightnings  are  glancing  dim  thro'  the  gloom 
Thou  Ruler  of  battles,  thou  Lord  of  all, 
Listen,  and  save 
His  life  from  the  jaws  of  grim  Death  and  the  grave ! 

SOLO. 

Far,  far  in  southern  mountains, 

A  thousand  crystal  fountains 
Roll  over  rocks  of  gold ; 

And  precious  gems  are  there, 

Of  colors  rich  and  rare, 

And  treasured  wealth  untold ; 
The  diamond  and  the  sapphire  starry  blue, 
The  topaz  and  the  chrysolite's  pale  hue, 
The  sea-green  beryl  and  the  chrysoprase, 
The  amethyst  and  hyacinth's  purple  face, 
The  chalcedony  and  jasper's  paley  sheen, 
The  sardonyx  and  emerald's  living  green. 
Away,  away  to  the  halls  of  light, 
To  mountains  with  mines  and  gems  bedight ! 
Away  to  the  lands  of  eternal  spring ! 
We'll  delve,  and  dig,  and  laugh,  and  sing, 
And  rob  old  Plutus  of  half  his  stores, 
Then  turn  with  revel  and  joy  to  our  native  shores. 

CHORUS. 

Where  the  gold  flames  there  burns  the  pestilent  sun : 

Ah !  riches  oft  are  but  too  costly  won ! 

Short  is  our  life — but  wealth,  more  fleeting  still, 

Deludes,  and  leaves  us  ere  we  take  our  fill 

Of  earthly  bliss ;  then  man  can  only  mourn, 

'Till  last  we  reach  that  land  whence  there  is  no  return. 


THE   VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 


PART   IV,  —  OLD  AGE. 


Hark !  the  long  silence ! 
Silence  and  darkness  o'er  us  close, 

And  from  the  hollow  tomb 

(The  dim  and  shadowy  home 
Of  mortals)  come  the  voices  of  the  dead. 

Sadness  and  wailing, 
Sorrow  and  mourning,  is  the  song, 

For  shapeless  tongues  of  air 

With  harp  and  voice  prepare 
The  slow,  soft  anthem  of  the  sleeping  dead. 

Pale  shades  and  silence 
Solemnly  list  to  the  hollow  sound ; 

All  dim  and  gliding  ghosts 

Thro'  all  the  infernal  coasts 
Move  in  just  number  to  the  choral  swell. 

Listen,  ye  living, 
Listen  and  come,  behold  your  end ; 

Listen,  ye  thoughtless  ones, 

Listen,  ye  sorrowful, 
For  all  are  held  beneath  the  power  of  death. 

Dim  ghosts  and  shadows 
Hold  now  the  dear  one's  lovely  form 

Dark-eyed  Euphemia 

Shall  smile  no  more  on  thee, 
But  thou  shalt  go  to  her  amid  the  hollow  ground. 


SOLO. 

Ah !  whither  now  are  fled 
The  joys  and  smiles  that  beckoned  from  afar? 

Childhood  and  youth  are  dead, 
And  manhood's  thoughts  are  dreams  more  thin  than  air. 


HYMN  TO  SOLITUDE. 


Thro'  what  vain  shadows  all 
Move  the  gay  tribes  of  this  terrestrial  ball ! 

Wealth,  honor,  power,  and  fame, 
Each  proves  a  dubious  good  but  real  ill : 

Fame  is  an  empty  name, 
And  power's  a  bubble  burst  before  its  fill. 

And  love,  too,  ah !  how  frail 
Its  liveliest  joys  !    How  soon  its  rose  grows  pale ! 

Alas !  how  vain  is  man, 
That  frets  upon  this  stage  his  little  hour, 

And  counts  this  fleeting  span 
Eternal  age — his  frailty,  unfailing  power ! 

Short  joys  and  lasting  pains 
Alone,  thro'  time,  his  utmost  care  obtains. 

Farewell,  then,  earthly  joys ! 
My  soul  shall  find  her  rest  above  the  skies, 

(Far  from  this  pomp  and  noise,) 
In  those  fair  courts  where  endless  pleasures  rise : 

There  her  fair  mansion  stands, 
Unfailing — rear'd  by  God's  eternal  hands ! 


HYMN  TO  SOLITUDE. 


BY   D.  THOMPSON. 


Thou  who  lovest  the  desert  wild, 

Far  from  Folly's  noisy  train, 
'Mid  thy  haunts  serene  and  mild 

Let  me  woo  thy  gentle  reign, 
Where  the  harebell  blooms  unknown 

Thro'  her  silent  summer  days ; 
Where  the  slim  deer  stalks  alone 

O'er  his  pathless  ferny  maze. 
Sweet  will  be  my  morning  dreams 

'Mid  thy  forest's  shelter'd  glade 
Bright  as  ere  its  opening  gleams, 

Peaceful  as  its  holiest  shade. 


ANGELS    OF    THE  PAST. 


BY  E.  G.  BARBER. 
"Teach,  oh,  teach  me  to  forget!" 

A  sorrowful  heart  and  lonely, 

Must  have  breathed  that  mournful  strain, 
But  give  me  sweet  memories  only, 

And  the  bygone  hours  again ; 
For  sunshine,  gentle  and  golden, 

Seems  hovering  round  the  past, 
And  over  these  memories  olden 

Its  holiest  beauty  has  cast. 

Sweet  hours  of  my  childhood's  gladness ! 

Bright  hours  so  free  from  care  ! 
If  ever  a  shade  of  sadness 

Stole  over  your  beauty  there, 
'Twas  but  as  the  clouds  of  evening, 

That  gleam  in  the  western  skies — 
Made  beautiful  by  the  sunlight 

That  just  beneath  them  lies. 

Bright  hours  of  the  past !  ye  meet  me, 

A  gentle  and  solemn  band ; 
Like  spirits  of  old  ye  greet  me 

From  the  bowers  of  memory's  land, 
Some  stand  where  light  is  falling, 

And  their  white  wings  brightly  shine; 
And  their  smiling  lips  are  calling 

"  Come  back !"  to  this  heart  of  mine. 

And  some  are  sorrowful  minions, 

That  stand  where  sunbeams  fade, 
And  the  gleam  of  their  motionless  pinions 

Has  a  darker  and  deeper  shade ; 
For  these  were  hours  less  cheerful 

Than  memory  loves  to  recall — 
And  the  glances  so  mild  and  tearful, 

Too  sad  on  my  spirit  fall. 

But  hush !  what  whisper  these  angels 
With  their  mystical,  solemn  speech  1 

What  holy  and  sweet  evangels 
Do  the  bygone  moments  teach  ? 

"  So  live,  that  a  spirit  immortal 

That  has  trod  life's  path  of  years, 
May  never  look  back  from  the  portal, 

On  its  farthermost  verge,  with  tears. 
But  may  see  the  future  all  glorious, 

And  the  past  undimmed  by  regret — 
No  deed  that  the  sorrowful  spirit 

May  sigh  in  its  grief,  "  to  forget" 


ROMANCE    OF    REAL  LIFE. 


Counts  Hadick  and  Ameady,  both  belonging  to  old  fami- 
lies of  Hungary,  were  on  terms  of  intimate  friendship,  which 
their  long  and  important  services  had  cemented.  They 
resolved  to  superadd  the  stronger  ties  of  relationship  by 
uniting  their  children,  who  were  then  of  about  the  same  age. 
Therefore  Hadick,  the  sole  heir  to  his  illustrious  house,  was 
brought  up  with  young  Constance,  who,  from  her  childhood, 
displayed  as  much  beauty  as  goodness.  At  the  age  of  fif- 
teen, the  feelings  of  those  two  young  persons  were  already 
what  they  were  to  be  throughout  their  lives.  The  estates 
of  the  two  magnates  were  in  the  same  neighborhood.  Con- 
stance, in  attending  the  lessons  of  her  young  friend,  easily 
learned  ail  those  exercises  which  develop  the  graces  without 
detriment  to  beauty.  They  had  also  the  same  passion  for 
music — a  passion  natural  to  the  Hungarians.  Throughout 
the  country  they  were  extolled  as  patterns  of  virtue  ;  already 
did  their  parents  think  of  fixing  the  period  of  their  marriage, 
when  war  broke  out. 

The  laws  of  Hungary,  as  you  are  aware,  oblige  every  noble 
to  combat  in  person  in  the  defense  of  his  native  land ;  and 
at  critical  junctures,  when  the  whole  nation  arises,  the  mag- 
nates with  their  banners  march  at  the  head  of  their  vassals. 
Count  Hadick,  with  due  regard  to  the  honor  of  his  house, 
wished  his  son  to  take  a  part  in  the  impending  operations. 
Young  Constance  beheld  with  courage  the  preparations  for 
the  departure  of  her  friend,  whose  absence  the  chances  of  war 
might  render  a  very  long,  and  perhaps  an  eternal  one. 

The  day  before  the  departure  the  betrothing  took  place, 
and  it  was  with  the  certainty  of  possessing  the  hand  of  Con- 
stance that  the  young  count  set  out,  at  the  head  of  his  vas- 
sals, to  join  the  Hungarian  army  at  Pesth.  The  issue  of 
that  war  is  well  known.    The  Hungarians  sustained  in  it 


164 


ROMANCE  OF  REAL  LIFE. 


their  reputation  of  valor.  Theodore,  for  several  actions  of 
eclat,  obtained  the  cross  of  Maria  Theresa — one  of  the  most 
honorable  military  distinctions. 

But  whilst  the  youth  was  winning  these  laurels,  Constance 
was  suffering  from  a  cruel  disease.  Attacked  with  the  small- 
pox, she  long  lingered  between  life  and  death.  At  length 
she  recovered,  but  the  efforts  of  her  physicians  could  not  save 
her  charming  face  from  havoc — it  became  almost  hideous. 
She  was  not  permitted  to  see  herself  in  a  mirror  before  her 
complete  convalescence.  On  beholding  herself,  she  was 
seized  with  despair,  and,  persuaded  that  Theodore  could  love 
her  no  more,  she  wished  for  death.  In  vain  did  her  father 
and  Count  Hadick  strive  to  comfort  her :  harassed  by  the 
dread  of  being  no  longer  worthy  of  her  futur,  she  rejected 
all  consolation,  and  was  rapidly  withering. 

She  was  in  this  melancholy  condition  when  one  morning 
a  servant,  who  had  accompanied  Theodore  de  Hadick  to  the 
army,  hastily  entered  the  apartment  in  which  she  was  with 
her  father,  and  announced  that  his  young  master  was  follow- 
ing him.  He  was  soon  heard  advancing  and  crying,  "  Con- 
stance, where  art  thou  ?" 

On  hearing  this  beloved  voice,  the  poor  girl  had  not  courage 
enough  to  flee :  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
her  handkerchief,  and  implored  her  lover  not  to  look  at  her. 
"  Her  beauty  was  gone,"  she  said,  "  and  she  had  now  but 
her  heart  to  offer  him."  Theodore  begged  her  to  look  at 
him,  observing  that  it  mattered  not  whether  she  were  more 
or  less  handsome,  since  he  could  no  longer  see  her.  She 
looked  at  him — he  was  blind — a  shot  he  had  received  having 
destroyed  his  sight ! 

They  were  soon  after  married — and  never,  perhaps,  did 
a  couple  so  worthy  of  being  happy,  prove  more  so.  The 
countess  conducts  her  husband  everywhere,  without  quitting 
him  for  a  single  moment.  She  lavishes  on  him  the  most 
affectionate  attentions ;  and,  if  you  always  see  her  with  a 
veil,  it  is  not  because  she  fears  to  show  her  disfigured  fea- 
tures, but  because  she  dreads  some  remarks  upon  the  loss 
of  her  beauty  which  may  be  overheard  by  Count  Hadick, 
and  sadden  a  husband  whom  she  adores. 


PUT  UP  A  PICTURE  IN  YOUR  ROOM. 

BY    LEIGH  HUNT. 

May  we  exhort  such  of  our  readers  as  have  no  pictures 
hanging  in  their  room,  to  put  one  up  immediately  7  we  mean 
in  their  principal  sitting-room  ;  in  all  their  rooms,  if  possible, 
but,  at  all  events,  in  that  one.    No  matter  how  costly,  or  the 
reverse,  provided  they  see  something  in  it,  and  it  gives  them 
a  profitable  or  pleasant  thought.    Some  may  allege  that 
they  have  "  no  taste  for  pictures ;"  but  they  have  a  taste  for 
objects  to  be  found  in  pictures — for  trees,  for  landscapes,  for 
human  beauty,  for  scenes  of  life ;  or,  if  not  for  all  these,  yet 
surely  for  some  one  of  them ;  and  it  is  highly  useful  for  the 
human  mind  to  give  itself  helps  towards  taking  an  interest 
in  things  apart  from  its  immediate  cares  or  desires.  They 
serve  to  refresh  us  for  their  better  conquest  or  endurance ; 
to  render  sorrow  unselfish  ;  to  remind  us  that  we  ourselves, 
or  our  own  personal  wishes,  are  not  the  only  objects  in  the 
world ;  to  instruct  and  elevate  us,  and  put  us  in  a  fairer  way 
of  realizing  the  good  opinions  which  we  would  all  fain  enter- 
tain of  ourselves,  and  in  some  measure  do  ;  to  make  us  com- 
pare notes  with  other  individuals,  and  with  nature  at  large, 
and  correct  our  infirmities  at  their  minor  by  modesty  and 
reflection  ;  in  short,  even  the  admiration  of  a  picture  is  a  kind 
of  religion,  or  additional  tie  on  our  consciences,  and  re-bind- 
ing of  us,  (for  such  is  the  meaning  of  the  word  religion.) 
to  the  greatness  and  goodness  of  nature. 

Mr.  Hazlitt  has  said  somewhere,  of  the  portrait  of  a  beau- 
tiful female  with  a  noble  countenance,  that  it  seems  as  if 
an  unhandsome  action  would  be  impossible  in  its  presence. 
It  is  not  so  much  for  restraint's  sake,  as  for  the  sake  of  diffu- 


166  PUT  UP  A  PICTURE  IN  YOUR  ROOM. 

siveness  of  heart,  or  the  going  out  of  ourselves,  that  we  would 
recommend  pictures  ;  but,  among  other  advantages,  this  also, 
of  reminding  us  of  our  duties,  would  doubtless  be  one ;  and 
if  reminded  with  charity,  the  effect,  though  perhaps  small 
in  most  instances,  would  still  be  something.  We  have  read 
of  a  Catholic  money-lender,  who  when  he  was  going  to 
cheat  a  customer,  always  drew  a  veil  over  the  portrait  of  his 
favorite  saint.  Here  was  a  favorite  vice,  far  more  influential 
than  the  favorite  saint ;  and  yet  we  are  of  opinion  that  the 
money-lender  was  better  for  the  saint  than  he  would  have 
been  without  him.  It  left  him  faith  in  something ;  he  was 
better  for  it  in  the  intervals ;  he  would  have  treated  his 
daughter  the  better  for  it,  or  his  servant,  or  his  dog.  There 
was  a  bit  of  heaven  in  his  room — a  sunbeam  to  shine  into 
a  corner  of  his  heart — however  he  may  have  shut  the  win- 
dow against  it  when  heaven  was  not  to  look  on. 

The  companionship  of  anything  greater  or  better  than 
ourselves  must  do  us  good,  unless  we  are  destitute  of  all 
modesty  or  patience  :  and  a  picture  is  a  companion,  and  the 
next  thing  to  the  presence  of  what  it  represents.  We  may 
live  in  the  thick  of  a  city,  for  instance,  and  can  seldom  go 
out  and  "  feed  "  ourselves — 

"  With  pleasure  of  the  breathing  fields  f 

but  we  can  put  up  a  picture  of  the  fields  before  us,  and  as 
we  get  used  to  it,  we  shall  find  it  the  next  thing  to  seeing 
the  fields  at  a  distance — for  every  picture  is  a  kind  of  win- 
dow, which  supplies  us  with  a  fine  sight ;  and  many  a  thick, 
unpierced  wall,  thus  lets  us  into  the  studies  of  the  greatest 
men  and  the  most  beautiful  scenes  of  nature.  By  living 
with  pictures  we  learn  to  "read"  them — to  see  into  every 
nook  and  corner  of  a  landscape,  and  every  feature  of  the 
mind  ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  be  in  the  habit  of  these  perusals, 
or  even  of  being  vaguely  conscious  of  the  presence  of  the 
good  and  beautiful,  and  considering  them  as  belonging  to  us, 
or  forming  a  part  of  our  common-places,  without  being,  at 
the  very  least,  less  subject  to  the  disadvantages  arising  from 
having  no  such  thoughts  at  all. 


PUT  UP  A  PICTURE  IN  YOUR  ROOM. 


167 


And  it  is  so  easy  to  square  the  picture  to  one's  aspirations, 
or  professions,  or  the  powers  of  one's  pocket.    For,  as  to 
resolving  to  have  no  picture  at  all  in  one's  room,  unless  we 
could  have  it  costly  and  finely  painted,  and  finely  framed, 
that  would  be  a  mistake  so  vulgar,  that  we  trust  no  reader 
of  any  decent  publication  now-a-days  could  fall  into  it.  The 
greatest  knave  or  simpleton  in  the  land,  provided  he  is  rich, 
can  procure  one  of  the  finest  paintings  in  the  world  to-mor- 
row, and  know  nothing  about  it  when  he  has  got  it ;  but  to 
feel  the  beauties  of  a  work  of  art,  or  to  be  capable  of  being 
led  to  feel  them,  is  a  gift  which  often  falls  to  the  lot  of  the 
poorest ;  and  this  is  what  Raphael  or  Titian  desired  in  those 
who  looked  upon  their  pictures.    All  the  rest  is  taking  the 
clothes  for  the  man.    Now  it  so  happens  that  the  cheapest 
engravings,  though  they  cannot  come  up  to  the  merits  of  the 
originals,  often  contain  no  mean  portion  or  shadow  of  them  ; 
and  when  we  speak  of  putting  pictures  up  in  a  room,  we  use 
the  word  "  picture  "  in  the  child's  sense,  meaning  any  kind  of 
graphic  representation — oil,  water-color,  copper-plate  drawing, 
or  wood-cut.    And  any  one  of  these  is  worth  putting  up  in 
your  room,  provided  you  have  mind  enough  to  get  a  pleasure 
from  it.    Even  a  frame  is  not  necessary,  if  you  cannot  afford 
it.    Better  put  up  a  rough,  varnished  engraving,  than  none 
at  all ;  or  pin,  or  stick  up,  any  engraving  whatsoever,  at  the 
hazard  of  its  growing  never  so  dirty.    You  will  keep  it  as 
clean  as  you  can,  and  for  as  long  a  time ;  and  as  for  the 
rest,  it  is  better  to  have  a  good  memorandum  before  you, 
and  get  a  fresh  one  when  you  are  able,  than  to  have  none 
at  all,  or  even  to  keep  it  clean  in  a  portfolio.    How  should 
you  like  to  keep  your  own  heart  in  a  portfolio,  or  lock  up 
your  friend  in  another  room  7    We  are  no  friends  to  port- 
folios, except  where  they  contain  more  prints  than  can  be 
hung  up.    The  more,  in  that  case,  the  better. 


Wisdom. — True  wisdom  is  to  know  what  is  best  worth 
knowing,  and  to  do  that  which  is  best  worth  doing. 


THE   BEAUTIFUL  BLONDE. 

BY  W.  K.  COLE. 

She  has  locks  that  are  golden,  and  eyes  that  are  bright, 
Yet  as  calm  in  their  sparkle  as  gems  of  the  night. 
She  has  lips  roundly  chisell'd — more  luscious  each  one 
Than  the  rare-ripe  that  catches  its  blush  from  the  sun. 
She  has  cheeks  on  whose  soft  lily  surface  are  born, 
With  each  passing  emotion,  the  tinges  of  morn. 
Oh,  'twere  well  worth  a  kingdom,  one  love-glance  so  fond, 
When  won  from  the  eye  of  the  beautiful  blonde. 

Yes,  the  beautiful  blonde,  in  that  passionless  eye 
Has  no  love-speaking  glance,  and  no  amorous  sigh ; 
Yet  heaves  the  soft  bosom,  she  seemeth  as  cold 
In  her  modest  reserve,  as  the  goddess  of  old. 
Fame  courts  her  and  riches — yet,  turning  aside, 
She  spurns  all  their  proffers  with  maidenly  pride  : 
Even  spirits  most  sanguine  and  daring  despond 
Of  winning  the  heart  of  the  beautiful  blonde. 

Fame  courts  her  and  riches — love-suitors  appear; 
She  is  proof  to  ambition,  the  sigh,  and  the  tear. 
Now  Genius,  scarce  hoping,  the  argument  tries, 
With  an  effort  well  worthy  himself  and  the  prize. 
Oh,  his  are  the  treasures  bequeathed  from  above — 
More  precious  than  riches,  aye,  even  than  love — 
Tho'  the  wealth  were  of  Croesus,  the  love  deep  and  fond 
As  that  he  would  claim  for  the  beautiful  blonde. 

Why  falters  the  beauty  ?  why  spreads  the  rich  glow 
Where  of  late  all  was  pale  and  as  cold  as  the  snow  ? 
What  magic-like  power  can  Genius  thus  find  ] 
This  the  key  to  the  riddle — mind  speaketh  to  mind. 
The  soul  is  awakened — love  follows  esteem — 
Love  deeper  and  richer  than  passion's  warm  dream ; 
And  Genius  exults  in  the  love-glance  so  fond, 
Now  won  from  the  eye  of  the  beautiful  blonde. 


SARAH. 


177 


of  Faunus  or  paternal  Sylvan  through  Hesperian  groves, 
"Abraham!  Abraham!  take  now  thy  son,  thine  only  son 
Isaac,  whom  thou  lovest,  and  get  thee  into  the  land  of  Mo- 
rial),  and  offer  him  there  for  a  burnt-offering  upon  one  of  the 
mountains  which  I  will  tell  thee  of." 

Nothing  is  more  sad  in  the  gloomy  and  licentious  My- 
thology of  the  heathen  world,  than  the  sight  of  Gods  who 
delight  in  the  immolation  of  human  beings  by  hecatombs 
upon  their  altars  in  every  land.  And  now  shall  the  race  of 
Abraham  fall  into  the  same  snare  ;  and  shall  he  that  has 
passed  unharmed  through  the  Baal  fires  in  "Ur  of  the  Chal- 
dees,"  when  the  lawless  violence  of  Nimrod  exposed  the  just 
man  to  perish  for  his  faith,  become  an  example  to  all  ages, 
of  one  highly  favored  by  God,  and  yet  bound  by  an  inex- 
orable and  bloody  superstition  ? 

Alas !  could  Sarah  find  how  she  might  penetrate  the  veil 
that  for  the  first  time  covers  the  heart  of  Abraham  from  all 
search  of  his  beloved  spouse  !  She  knows  there  is  some 
dreadful  calamity  impending.  His  altered  visage,  the  tears 
frequently  starting  unbid,  the  convulsive  shudderings  that 
spare  not  the  patriarchal  limbs  and  countenance,  the  un- 
wonted fervency  and  strangeness  of  his  invocations  when 
the  sacrifice  bleeds  by  the  altar,  and  a  thousand  other  signs 
of  distress,  show  but  too  well  what  he  would  fain  conceal — - 
that  a  fire  consumes  his  vitals,  and  some  desperate,  enor- 
mous grief  is  breaking  his  noble  and  trus  heart.  But  im- 
penetrable his  thoughts  are  locked  up  in  the  secret  sanctuary 
of  his  own  bosom  and  the  counsel  of  God  ;  nor  prying  man 
nor  angel  can  wring  from  the  patriarch  the  unknown  mystery 
of  his  faithful  soul.  Hard  indeed  is  that  lot,  inexpressible 
is  the  sorrow  that  a  devoted  wife  must  not  share,  and  is  not 
permitted  by  a  look  or  a  word  to  alleviate.  But  Sarah  must 
not  be  told  the  reality.  Better  far  for  her  is  the  worst  she 
can  imagine;  for  the  truth  she  will  never  suspect,  nor  believe, 
until  her  son  himself  returns,  and,  burying  his  sweet  head 
in  her  maternal  bosom,  covered  again  with  kisses  and  en- 
compassed with  her  fond  and  inviolable  embraces,  relates  all 
that  has  befallen  them  in  their  seven  days'  journey ;  how 


178 


SARAH. 


they  left  the  grassy  fields  of  Beersheba,  and  saw  afar  off  the 
thyme-covered  hiils  by  Hebron,  with  their  zones  of  unfading 
forests  ;  the  rocky  steeps  around  Tekoah,  thinly  sprinkled 
over  with  oaks  and  gloomy  firs;  the  chalky  ridges  by  Eshte-* 
moa,  grown  over  with  glades  of  olive  and  rich  pasturage 
for  flocks ;  the  vine-clad  vales  of  Bethlehem,  with  their  gar- 
dens of  figs  and  fields  of  yellow  grain,  and  crystal  wells  that 
kings  may  desire  to  cool  their  thirst  in  battle ;  the  heights 
of  Adullam,  cut  beneath  into  inextricable  labyrinths — a 
mountain  sanctuary  moulded  in  living  stone ;  the  hollow 
rocks  of  Makkedah  ;  the  gigantic  wiliows  that  droop  their 
leaves  above  clear  wells  by  Bethhoglah  ;  the  snow-white 
steeps  of  Rimmon  in  the  wilderness ;  and  Hai,  with  her  de- 
fence of  verdant  rocks  amid  fields  of  olives,  figs,  and  waving 
grain  ;  the  steeps  of  Gibeon  or  Bethhoron,  and  the  vales  of 
Bethel  or  Aialon,  where  the  sun  and  moon  shall  stand  still 
at  the  voice  of  a  man  ;  the  cany  fields  by  Jericho,  where 
grows  the  sweet  lotus  among  palms,  and  gardens  of  roses, 
or  fields  of  balsam  and  figs,  and  the  bee  banquets  on  through 
a  whole  year  of  flowers ;  until  they  come  to  drink  the  waters 
of  Siloah's  fountain,  or  Kedron  flowing  softly  through  the 
horrid  vale  afterwards  named  from  Hinnom's  son,  and  climb 
the  dark  cliffs  of  Salem  and  Moriah,  grown  over  with  an- 
cient olives.  Then  the  piled  altar,  and  the  wood  borne  upon 
his  own  shoulders,  the  awful  solitude,  the  fire,  the  glistening 
knife,  the  binding,  the  cheerful  resignation  of  the  victim, 
the  dreadful  steadfastness  of  the  father,  his  hand  uplifted 
to  strike  with  his  keenly  flashing  steel  the  son  of  his  old  age, 
the  parting  of  the  clouds,  the  sudden  flash  of  lightning,  the 
voice  of  the  Angel-God  forbidding  the  sacrifice  of  a  man, 
and  substituting  a  lamb  caught  in  a  thicket  by  his  horns, 
as  an  expiatory  victim,  whereby  the  patriarch  in  a  figure 
received  again  his  son  from  the  dead,  and  became  once  more 
confirmed  in  his  trust  as  heir  to  the  righteousness  that  is  by 
faith. 

But  our  secular  arrangements  must  be  all  broken  up; 
the  tenderest  relationships  are  severed  like  flax  in  the  fire, 
and  families  are  scattered  abroad  over  the  face  of  the  earth 


SARAH. 


179 


like  leaves  when  the  autumnal  air  has  reddened  the  forests, 
and  the  first  winds  of  winter  begin  to  howl  through  the 
fruitless  branches.  Happy,  oh  !  thrice  happy  are  they  that 
"close  a  long  and  sorely-tried  life  with  a  cheerful  and  trusting 
exit  for  the  Spirit  Land  !  Sarah,  the  mother  of  kings  and 
prophets,  and  the  Son  of  God  their  Paramount — Sarah,  that 
all  nations  shall  call  blessed  forever,  and  whom  millions 
upon  millions  regard  with  eternal  veneration  as  the  head 
of  their  race  and  the  fountain  of  their  mightiest  youth — - 
Sarah,  that  all  the  holy  women  of  future  times  shall  glory 
in  naming  Mother,  and  a  blessed  example  to  faith  under 
ineffable  trials,  when  they  are  exposed  to  racks  and  wheels, 
and  fires,  and  dungeons,  and  the  rage  of  wild  beasts  in 
theatres  over  the  globe — Sarah,  whose  memory  shall  be 
more  fragrant  than  a  chaplet  of  roses  to  the  Maccabean 
mother  in  her  dry  pan  and  to  the  Marys  at  the  cross  ;  to  Blan- 
dina  in  her  red-hot  iron  chair ;  to  Chione  and  Agape  and 
Prosperia  and  thousands  more,  in  their  torments  ;  to  the 
Vaudois  wife,  fainting  in  the  arms  of  her  husband  as  the 
blood  wells  from  her  death  wound,  or  rolling  down  the  snowy 
Alps  to  be  dashed  upon  the  rocks,  with  her  children,  before 
the  bloody  spears  of  her  Popish  enemies ;  to  the  Puritan 
mother,  as  she  stands  with  her  children  to  see  her  husband 
consume  in  the  flames  of  Smithfield,  or  makes  her  grave 
by  his  side  upon  the  frozen  coast  of  New  England  ;  to  the 
female  missionary,  as  she  breathes  her  last  sigh  to  the  lips  of 
strangers ;  and  to  the  Hindoo  widow,  who  hast  first  learned 
that  she  has  a  separate  soul  and  personal  rights,  and  higher 
duties  than  to  burn  upon  the  funereal  pile  of  her  husband, 
or  fling  her  helpless,  confiding  babes  into  the  Ganges  to  be 
devoured  of  sharks  and  crocodiles — even  she,  in  her  green 
old  age,  must  at  last  lie  down  upon  the  bed  of  death  and 
yield  up  her  spirit  to  God  who  gave  it  and  tried  it  with  a 
trial  more  precious  than  that  of  perishable  gold,  and  made  it 
worthy  of  himself. 

Pale  as  the  snow,  yet  beautiful  as  morning,  she  lies  in 
robes  of  white.  The  busy  maids  scatter  flowers  and  fragrant 
perfumes  about  her  bier,  and  the  low,  sad  dirge  is  wailed  slow 


180 


SARAH. 


from  no  mercenary  lips  as  she  reposes  in  eternal  silence  and 
peace.  The  afflicted  patriarch  is  bowed  to  the  earth  with 
grief,  and  refuses  to  be  comforted  for  the  departed  idol  of  his 
youth.  But  the  dead  must  find  sepulture ;  and  he  rises 
from  the  ground,  where  he  has  lain  prostrate  by  her  side 
for  three  days  and  nights,  to  go  forth  once  more  and  stand 
before  the.  princes  of  Canaan  to  purchase  a  tomb  with  the 
weight  of  marked  silver  in  the  land  sworn  to  his  race  for  an 
eternal  inheritance.  With  princely  funereal  pomps  and  the 
voice  of  lamentation  from  a  thousand  voices  at  once,  the 
cave  of  MachpeJah  is  consecrated  for  a  family  burying-place, 
and  Sarah  reposes  where  only  the  last  trumpet  shall  awaken 
her  from  sleep,  unless  the  cry  of  the  Son  of  God  from  the 
cross  recall  to  their  bodies  the  parents  of  mankind,  when  the 
cave  of  Machpelah  shall  open  her  gloomy  doors,  that  her 
sleeping  saints  may  go  forth  to  triumph  with  their  Lord  over 
rebellious  principalities  and  powers  at  his  ascension. 

Alas  !  Nature  has  her  tears  even  for  the  blessed  saints 
when  they  leave  us ;  and  though  we  rejoice  in  their  eternity, 
we  must  bewail  our  own  deprivation  of  their  loved  society 
here.  Wail  then  the  dead,  O  father  of  nations,  and  ye  that 
stand  round  the  bier  of  Sarah  ;  for  she  shall  consort  with 
you  no  more  upon  the  earth.  Her  voice  may  come  low  and 
sweet  with  the  breath  of  the  south  wind  ;  her  smile  may 
glance  with  the  light  of  the  Pleiades  or  the  moist-eyed  Kids 
over  the  new  earth  of  spring,  but  none  shall  know  whence 
it  comes.  Her  sweet  breath  may  murmur  about  the  couch 
of  her  husband  or  the  son  of  her  old  age,  and  breathe  quiet 
and  repose  and  the  assurance  of  peace  into  the  souls  of  the 
loved  ones  she  has  left.  She  may  sit  by  the  cradle  of  the 
new-born  babe  and  whisper  consolation  to  the  mother  that 
bewails  the  death  of  her  only  child.  She  may  visit  the  kin? 
in  his  power  or  the  captive  in  his  dungeon  j  she  may  speak 
peace  to  the  dying  or  terror  to  those  who  are  about  to  sin ; 
she  may  dry  the  bloody  sweat  from  the  brow  of  the  martyr 
on  his  rack,  or  warble  a  charm  to  soothe  his  nerves  against 
the  tortures  of  the  stake  or  the  dry  pan  j  but  she  is  seen  no- 
more  among  the  living,  and  tears  must  flow  by  night  and 
day  for  her  departure  out  of  our  sight. 


SARAH. 


181 


The  patriarch  may  wed  again  to  abate  the  loneliness  of 
age  and  sorrow;  but  no  other  spouse  is  a  Sarah.  A  multi- 
tude of  sons  may  call  him  father,  but  they  are  not  the  chil- 
dren of  promise  ;  and  he  must  send  them  away  with  portions 
towards  the  east,  where  they  shall  come  to  a  long  renown, 
and  grow  powerful  by  the  shores  of  the  ocean,  among  the 
sons  of  Joktan  or  the  Arabian  Cuthim. 

And  her  son  too,  the  quiet  and  devout  Isaac,  shall  bring 
to  her  tent  the  lovely  daughter  of  Bethuel,  and  be  comforted 
In  his  youthful  spouse  when  his  mother  is  no  more. 

Almost  forty  years  pass,  and  another  race  have  sprung  up 
around  the  hospitable  board  of  Abraham.  Far  removed  in 
the  wilds  of  Paran,  the  brood  of  Ishmael  are  numbered  by 
their  thousands,  and  the  children  of  Lot  are  grown  to  na- 
tions, while  the  sons  of  Isaac  are  but  two  only  ;  the  one  heir 
to  the  promises,  the  other  his  mortal  foe,  whose  race  shall 
become  mighty,  while  the  sons  of  Jacob  shall  come  late  from 
poor  estate  to  powerful  empire,  and  their  Messiah  shall  judge 
the  world  he  shall  first  die  to  redeem. 

At  length  the  old  patriarch,  satiated  with  years  and  honors, 
like  a  shock  of  corn  fully  ripe,  lays  down  his  venerable  head 
upon  the  bed  of  death,  and  is  gathered  to  his  people  in  the 
holy  mount  of  God.  In  a  princely  funereal  train  the  race 
of  Ishmael  come  from  the  south,  and  with  the  heirs  of  promise 
gather  about  his  lamentable  bier.  In  the  cave  of  Machpelah 
beside  his  lovely  consort  he  sleeps  in  peace  ;  but  far  off  be- 
yond the  boundaries  of  time  their  spirits  renew  the  nuptial 
league,  and  rejoice  in  the  repose  of  heaven  that  shall  never 
end.  Together  they  may  watch  the  life  of  their  sons  and 
daughters  upon  earth  through  every  trial,  and  rejoice  when 
they  overcome  the  foes  that  lay  snares  in  their  path,  or 
mitigate  the  pressure  of  calamity  when  it  falls  upon  the  just ; 
and  at  the  end  receive  each  with  an  individual  kiss,  when 
the  pains  of  this  mortal  state  end  in  a  universe  of  pure  bliss. 
Prophets  and  kings  from  age  to  age  among  their  posterity- 
shall  pass  before  their  eyes,  for  whose  sake  the  great  empires 
of  the  world  rise  and  fall ;  and  Messiah,  with  his  infinite 
train  of  apostles  and  martyrs,  shall  come  later  to  fill  the 


182 


HATH  NOT  THY  ROSE  A  CANKER? 


whole  earth  with  the  faith  no  less  than  the  fame,  the  glory 
no  less  than  the  trials,  of  Abraham  and  Sarah,  and  all  nations 
of  them  that  are  saved  shall  call  them  blessed  throughout 
eternity. 


"HATH  NOT  THY  ROSE  A  CANKER?" 


Pressed  with  the  weight  of  morning  dews, 

Its  slender  stalk  the  rose  was  bending, 
And  red  and  white  in  changing  hues 
Upon  its  cheek  were  sweetly  blending: 
But  underneath  the  leaflets  bright, 
By  blushing  beauty  hid  from  sight. 
Enamored  with  its  fragrance  rare, 
The  canker-worm  was  feasting  there. 

O  thou,  who  in  thy  youthful  dnys 

Ambition's  wreaths  art  proudly  twining, 
And  fondly  hoping-  worldly  praise 

Will  cheer  thine  after  years  declining — 
Beware,  lest  every  tempting  rose 
That  in  Ambition's  pathway  grows, 
Conceal  beneath  its  semblance  fair 
The  lurking  canker  of  despair ! 

And  thou  who  in  thine  early  morn 

For  sin  the  paths  of  truth  art  leaving, 
Remember,  though  no  pointed  thorn 

May  pierce  the  garland  thou  art  weaving, 
Yet  every  bud  whence  flowrets  bloom 
Shall  its  own  living  sweets  entomb ; 
For  deep  the  canker-worm  of  care 
Is  feasting  on  its  vitals  there. 

Thou  too,  the  beautiful  and  bright, 

At  Pleasure's  shrine  devoutly  kneeling, 
Dost  thou  not  see  the  fatal  blight 
Across  thy  roseate  chnplet  stealing'? 

Time  hath  not  touched  with  fingers  eold 
Those  glossy  leaves  of  beauty's  mould; 
And  vet  each  bud  and  blossom  gay 
Is  marked  for  slow  but  sure  decay. 

O  ye  who  sigh  for  flowers  that  bloom 

In  one  eternal  spring  of  gladness, 
Where  beauty  finds  no  darkened  tomb, 
And  joy  hath  never  dreamed  of  sadness ; 
Elysian  fields  are  yours  to  roam, 
Where  groves  of  fadeless  pleasures  bloom ; 
Oh,  linger  not  where  sorrow's  tears 
May  blight  the  cherished  hopes  of  years. 


I 


THE    GIRDLE    OF  FIRE. 


The  lower  counties  of  New  Jersey  are  proverbially  bar- 
ren, being  covered  with  immense  forests  of  pine,  interspersed 
with  cedar  swamps.  During  the  dry  summer  months,  these 
latter  become  parched  to  an  extent  that  is  incredible,  and 
the  accidental  contagion  of  a  fire-brand  often  wraps  immense 
tracks  of  country  in  flames.  The  rapidity  with  which  the 
conflagration,  when  once  kindled,  spreads  through  these 
swamps,  can  scarcely  be  credited  except  by  those  who  know 
how  thoroughly  the  moss  and  twigs  are  dried  up  by  the  heat 
of  an  August  sun  Indeed,  scarcely  a  spot  can  be  pointed 
out  in  West  Jersey,  which  has  not,  at  one  time  or  another, 
been  ravaged  by  conflagration.  It  was  but  a  few  years  since 
that  an  immense  tract  of  these  pine  barrens  was  on  fire,  and 
the  citizens  of  Philadelphia  can  recollect  the  lurid  appear- 
ance of  the  sky  at  night,  seen  at  the  distance  of  thirty  or 
even  forty  miles  from  the  scene  of  the  conflagration.  The 
legendary  history  of  these  wild  counties  is  full  of  daring 
deeds  and  hair-breadth  escapes  which  have  been  witnessed 
during  such  times  of  peril.  One  of  these  traditionary  stories 
it  is  our  purpose  to  relate.  The  period  of  our  tale  dates  far 
back  into  the  early  history  of  the  sister  state,  when  the  coun- 
try was  even  more  thinly  settled  than  at  present. 

It  was  a  sunny  morning  in  midsummer,  when  a  gay  party 
was  assembled  at  the  door  of  a  neat  house  in  one  of  the 
lower  counties  of  New  Jersey,  foremost  in  the  group  stood 
a  tall  manly  youth,  whose  frank  countenance  at  once  at- 
tracted the  eye.  By  his  side  was  a  bright  young  creature, 
apparently  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  whose  golden  tresses 
were  a  fit  type  of  the  sunny  beauty  of  her  countenance  :  but 


1S4 


THE  GIRDLE   OF  FIRE. 


now  her  soft  blue  eyes  were  dim  with  tears,  and  she  leaned 
on  the  shoulder  of  her  mother,  who  was  apparently  equally 
nffected.  The  dress  of  the  daughter,  and  her  attitude  of 
leave-taking,  told  that  she  was  a  bride,  going  forth  from  the 
home  of  her  childhood,  to  enter  on  a  new  and  untried  sphere 
of  life.  The  other  members  of  the  group  were  composed  of 
her  father,  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  the  bridemen  and 
bridemaids. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  daughter,  and  have  you  in  his  holy 
keeping,"  said  the  father,  as  he  gave  her  his  last  embrace — 
-and  now  farewell !" 

The  last  kiss  was  given,  the  last  parting  word  was  said, 
the  last  long  look  had  been  taken,  and  now  the  bridal  party 
was  being  whirled  through  the  forest  on  one  of  the  sweetest 
mornings  of  the  sweet  month  of  July. 

It  was  indeed  a  lovely  day.  Their  way  lay  through  an 
old  road  which  was  so  rarely  traveled  that  it  had  become 
overgrown  with  grass,  among  which  the  thick  dew-drops, 
glittering  in  the  morning  sun,  were  scattered  like  jewels  on 
a  monarch's  mantle.  The  birds  sang  merrily  in  the  trees, 
or  skipped  gaily  from  branch  to  branch,  while  the  gentle 
sighing  of  the  wind,  and  the  occasional  murmur  of  a  brook 
crossing  the  road,  added  to  the  exhilarating  influences  of 
the  hour.  The  travelers  were  all  young  and  happy,  and 
so  they  gradually  forgot  the  sadness  of  the  parting  hour, 
and  ere  they  had  traversed  many  miles,  the  green  arcades 
of  that  lovely  old  forest  were  ringing  with  merry  laughter. 
Suddenly,  however,  the  bride  paused  in  her  innocent  mirth, 
and,  while  a  shade  of  paleness  overspread  her  cheek,  called 
the  attention  of  her  husband  to  a  dark  black  cloud,  far  off 
on  the  horizon,  and  yet  gloomier  and  denser  than  the  dark- 
est thunder-cloud. 

"The  forest  is  on  fire.!"  was  his  instant  ejaculation; 
"  think  you  not  so,  Charnley  ?"  and  he  turned  to  his  grooms- 
man. 

"  Yes — but  the  wind  is  not  towards  us,  and  the  fire  must 
be  miles  from  our  course.  There  is  no  need  for  alarm,  El- 
len," said  he,  turning  to  the  bride,  his  sister. 


THE   GIRDLK  OF  FIRE. 


185 


"But  our  road  lies  altogether  through  the  forest,"  she 
timidly  rejoined,  "and  you  know  there  isn't  a  house  or  clear- 
ed space  for  miles." 

"Yes — but  my  dear  sis,  so  long  as  the  fire  keeps  its  dis- 
tance, it  matters  not  whether  our  road  is  through  the  forest 
or  the  fields.  We  will  drive  on  briskly,  and,  before  noon, 
you  will  laugh  at  your  fears.  Your  parting  from  home  has 
weakened  your  nerves." 

No  more  was  said,  and  for  some  time  the  carriage  pro- 
ceeded in  silence.  Meantime  the  conflagration  was  evidently 
spreading  with  great  rapidity.  The  dark,  dense  clouds  of 
smoke,  which  had  at  first  been  seen  hanging  only  in  one 
spot,  had  now  extended  in  a  line  along  the  horizon,  gradu- 
ally edging  around  so  as  to  head-off  the  travelers.  But  this 
was  done  so  imperceptibly,  that,  for  a  long  time,  they  were 
not  aware  of  it,  and  they  had  journeyed  at  least  half  an  hour 
before  they  saw  their  danger.  At  length  the  bride  spoke 
again  : 

"Surely,  dear  Edward,"  she  said,  addressing  her  husband, 
»  "the  fire  is  sweeping  around  a-head  of  us:  I  have  been 
watching  it  by  yonder  blasted  pine,  and  can  see  it  slowly 
creeping  across  the  trunk." 

Every  eye  was  instantly  turned  in  the  direction  in  which 
she  pointed — and  her  brother,  who  was  driving,  involuntarily 
checked  the  horses.  A  look  of  dismay  was  on  each  counte- 
nance as  they  saw  the  words  of  the  bride  verified.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  that  the  fire  had  materially  changed  its 
bearing  since  they  last  spoke,  and  now  threatened  to  cut  off 
their  escape  altogether. 

"I  wish.  Ellen,  we  had  listened  to  your  fears,  and  turned 
back  half  an  hour  ago,"  said  the  brother ;  "  we  had  better 
do  it  at  once." 

"God  help  us — that  is  impossible!"  said  the  husband, 
looking  backwards  ;  "  the  fire  has  cut  off  our  retreat !" 

It  was  as  he  said.  The  flames,  which  at  first  had  started 
at  a  point  several  miles  distant  and  at  right  angles  to  the 
road  the  party  was  traveling,  had  spread  out  in  every 
direction,  and,  finding  the  swamp  in  the  rear  of  the  travelers 


186 


THE   GIRDLK   OF  FIRE. 


parched  almost  to  tinder  by  the  drought,  had  extended  with 
inconceivable  velocity  in  that  quarter,  so  that  a  dense  cloud 
of  smoke,  beneath  which  a  dark  lurid  veil  of  fire  surged  and 
rolled,  completely  cut  off  any  retrograde  movement  on  the 
part  of  the  travelers.  This  volume  of  flame,  moreover,  was 
evidently  moving  rapidly  in  pursuit.  The  cheeks,  even  of 
the  male  members  of  the  bridal  party,  turned  ashy  pale  at 
the  sight. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  do  but  to  push  on,"  said  the  brother ; 
"  we  will  yet  clear  the  road  before  the  fire  reaches  it." 

"And  if  I  remember,"  said  the  husband,  "there  is  a  road 
branching  off  to  the  right,  scarce  half  a  mile  a-head  :  we  can 
gain  that  easily,  when  we  shall  be  safe.  Cheer  up,  Ellen — 
there  is  no  danger.  This  is  our  wedding  morn — let  me  not 
see  you  sad." 

The  horses  were  now  urged  forward  at  a  brisk  pace,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  the  bridal  party  reached  the  cross-road. 
Their  progress  was  now  directly  from  the  fire ;  all  peril 
seemed  at  an  end  ;  and  the  spirits  of  the  group  rose  in  pro- 
portion to  their  late  depression.  Once  more  the  merry  laugh 
was  heard,  and  the  song  rose  up  gaily  on  the  morning  ait. 
The  conflagration  still  raged  behind  ;  but  at  a  distance  that 
placed  all  fear  at  defiance  ;  while  in  front,  the  fire,  although 
edging  down  towards  them,  approached  at  a  pace  so  slow 
that  they  knew  it  would  not  reach  the  road  until  perhaps 
hours  after  they  had  attained  their  journey's  end.  At  length 
the  party  subsided  again  into  silence,  occupying  themselves 
in  gazing  on  the  magnificent  spectacle  presented  by  the  lurid 
flames,  as,  rolling  their  huge  volumes  of  smoke  above  them, 
they  roared  down  towards  the  travelers. 

'•The  forest  is  as  dry  as  powder,"  said  the  husband;  "I 
never  saw  a  conflagration  travel  so  rapidly.  The  fire  can- 
not have  been  kindled  many  hours,  and  it  has  already  spread 
for  miles.  Little  did  you  think,  Ellen,"  he  said,  turning 
fondly  to  his  bride,  "when  we  started  this  morning,  that 
you  should  so  narrowly  escape  such  a  peril." 

"And.  as  1  live,  the  peril  is  not  yet  over  !"  suddenly  ex- 
ilaimed  the  brother.    "See — see — afire  has  broke  out  ou 


THE   GIRDLE   OF  FIRE. 


187 


our  right,  and  is  coming  down  on  to  us  like  a  whirlwind  ! 
God  have  mercy  on  us  !" 

He  spoke  with  an  energy  that  would  have  startled  his 
hearers  without  the  fearful  words  he  uttered.  But  when 
they  followed  the  direction  of  his  quivering  finger,  a  shriek 
burst  from  the  two  females,  while  the  usually  collected  hus- 
band turned  ashy  pale,  not  for  himself,  but  for  her  who  was 
dearer  to  him  than  his  own  life.  A  fire,  during  the  last  few 
minutes,  had  started  to  life  in  the  forest  to  their  right,  and, 
as  the  wind  was  from  that  quarter,  the  flames  were  seen 
a-head  shooting  down  towards  the  road  which  the  bridal 
party  was'  traversing,  roaring,  hissing,  and  thundering  as 
they  drew -near. 

"  Drive  faster,  for  heaven's  sake  ! — on  the  gallop  !"  ex- 
claimed the  husband,  as  he  comprehended  the  imminency 
of  their  danger. 

The  brother  made  no  answer,  for  he  well  knew  their  fear- 
ful situation,  but  whipped  the  horses  into  a  run.  The  chaise 
flew  along  the  narrow  forest-road  with  a  rapidity  that  nei- 
ther of  the  party  had  ever  before  witnessed  ;  for  even  the 
animals  themselves  seemed  aware  of  their  peril,  and  strained 
every  sinew  to  escape  from  the  fiery  death  which  threatened 
them. 

Their  situation  was  indeed  terrible,  and  momentarily  be- 
coming more  precarious.  The  fire,  when  first  seen,  was,  at 
least,  a  mile  off,  but  nearly  equi-distant  from  a  point  in  the 
road  the  bridal  party  was  traversing  ;  and,  as  the  conflagra- 
tion swept  down  towards  the  road  with  a  velocity  equal  to 
that  of  the  travelers,  it  soon  became  evident  tnat  they  would 
have  barely  time  to  pass  the  fire  ere  it  swept  across  the  road, 
thus  cutting  off  all  escape  !  Each  saw  this  ;  but  the  females 
were  now  paralyzed  with  fear.    Only  the  husband  spoke 

u  Faster  ! — for  God's  sake,  faster  !"  he  hoarsely  cried  :  "see 
you  not  that  the  fire  is  making  for  yonder  tall  pine  ?  We 
shall  not  be  able  to  reach  the  tree  first,  unless  we  go  faster." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  the  brother,  lashing  still  more 
furiously  the  foaming  horses.  "Oh,  God  !  that  I  had  turned 
ba:k  when  Ellen  wished  me  !" 


188 


THE  GIRDLE  OF  FIRE. 


Oft  came  the  roaring  fire— on  in  one  mass  of  flame — on 
with  a  velocity  that  seemed  only  equalled  by  that  of  the 
flying  hurricane.  Now  the  flames  caught  the  lower  limbs 
of  a  tall  tree,  and  in  an  instant  had  hissed  to  its  top — now 
they  shot  out  their  forky  tongues  from  one  huge  pine  to 
another  far  across  the  intermediate  space — and  now  the 
whirling  fire  whistled  along  the  dry  grass  and  moss  of  the 
swamp  with  a  rapidity  which  the  eye  could  scarcely  follow. 
Already  the  fierce  heat  of  the  conflagration  began  to  be  felt 
by  the  travelers,  while  the  horses,  feeling  the  increase  of 
warmth,  grew  restive  and  terrified.  The  peril  momentarily 
increased.  Hope  grew  fainter.  Behind  and  on  either  side 
the  conflagration  roared  in  pursuit,  while  the  advancing 
flame  in  front  was  cutting  oflf  their  only  avenue  of  escape 
They  were  girdled  by  fire  !  Faster  and  quicker  roared  the 
flames  towards  the  devoted  party,  until  at  length  despair 
seized  on  the  hearts  of  the  travelers.  Pale,  paralyzed,  silent, 
inanimate  as  statues,  sat  the  females;  while  the  husband 
and  brother,  leaning  forward  in  the  carriage  and  urging  the 
horses  to  their  utmost  speed,  gazed  speechlessly  on  the 
approaching  flames.  Already  the  fire  was  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  road  a-head,  and  it  seemed  beyond  human  pro- 
bability that  the  travelers  could  pass  it  in  time.  The  hus- 
band gave  one  last  agonizing  glance  at  his  inanimate  wife. 
When  again  he  looked  at  the  approaching  flames,  he  saw 
that  during  that  momentary  glimpse  they  had  lessened  their 
distance  one-half.  He  could  already  feel  the  hot  breath  of 
the  fire  on  his  cheek.  The  wind,  too,  suddenly  whirled 
down  with  fiercer  fury,  and  in  an  instant  the  forky  tongues 
of  the  advancing  conflagration  had  shot  across  the  road,  and 
entwined  themselves  around  the  tall  pine  which  had  been 
the  goal  of  the  travelers'  hopes.  He  sank  back  with  a  groan ; 
but  the  brother's  eye  gleamed  wildly  at  the  sight,  and. 
gathering  the  reins  tighter  around  his  hand,  he  made  one 
last  desperate  effort  to  force  the  horses  onward  ;  and  with 
one  mad  leap,  they  lifted  the  carriage  from  the  ground  as  if 
it  had  been  a  plaything,  plunged  into  the  fiery  furnace,  and 
the  next  instant  had  shot  through  the  pass. 


ALONE. 


189 


Charnley  gave  one  look  backwards,  as  if  to  assure  himself 
that  they  had  indeed  escaped.  He  saw  the  lurid  mass  of  fire 
roaring"  and  whirling  across  the  spot  through  which  they  had 
darted  but  a  moment  before  ;  and,  overcome  with  mingled 
gratitude  and  awe,  he  bowed  his  head  on  his  breast,  and 
poured  out  an  oversowing  soul  in  thanksgivings  to  the  Power 
which  had  saved  them  from  the  most  dreadful  of  deaths. 
And  long  afterwards,  men  who  t  raveled  through  that  charred 
and  blackened  forest,  pointed  to  the  memorable  scene  where 
these  events  occurred,  and  rehearsed  the  thrilling  feelings  of 
those  who  had  been  encompassed  by  the  Girdlk  of  Fire. 


ALONE. 


Alone — upon  the  wide,  wide  world! 

'Tis  hard  to  dwell  alone — 
To  catch  no  look  of  human  love, 

To  list  no  gentle  tone, 
But  wander  through  life's  busy  crowd, 
"  Lone  as  the  corpse  within  its  shroud," 

Alone — 'tis  hard  to  sit  and  weep 

In  some  untrodden  shade. 
O'er  all  the  wrecks  of  life  and  joy 

A  few  bright  years  have  made ; 
To  trace  the  links  of  that  bright  chaiu 
Which  time  will  ne'er  unite  again. 

Alone — 'tis  agony  for  one 
Of  spirit  proud  and  strong, 

To  feel  life's  pulses  ebbing  fast 
Before  the  world's  cold  wrong; 

And  sternly  bide  each  pang  of  fate 

That  leaves  the  heart  so  desolate. 


THE    USE    OF  FLOWERS. 


BY  MART  HOWITT. 


God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small — 
The  oak-tree  and  the  cedar-tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 

He  might  have  made  enough,  enough 

For  every  want  of  ours — 
For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  made  no  flowers. 

The  ore  within  the  mountain-mine 

Requireth  none  to  grow  ; 
Nor  doth  it  need  the  lotus-flower 

To  make  the  river  flow. 

The  clouds  might  give  abundant  rain — 

The  nightly  dews  might  fall— . 
And  the  herb  that  keepeth  life  in  man 

Might  yet  have  drunk  them  all. 

Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made, 

All  dyed  with  rainbow-light; 
All  fashioned  with  supremest  grace, 

Upspringing  day  and  night: 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low, 

And  on  the  mountains  high, 
And  in  the  silent  wilderness, 

Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not- 
Then  wherefore  had  they  birth? 

To  minister  delight  to  man — 
To  beautify  the  earth ; 

To  comfort  man — to  whisper  hope, 

Whene'er  his  faith  is  dim ; 
For  whoso  careth  for  the  flowers, 

Will  much  more  care  for  him. 


FANNY  RICHMOND. 


A  TALE. 


"  1  am  g(  ing  to  New- York  to-morrow,"  said  Fanny  Rich- 
mood  to  Aidison  Parker,  as  he  entered,  just  at  nightfall, 
the  parlor  where  he  was  accustomed  daily  to  spend  the  only 
half-hour  which  he  could  spare  from  his  professional  studies. 

"Indeed  !    How  long  do  you  remain  there?"  said  Parker. 

"I  cannot  tell.  My  friends  wish  me  to  spend  the  winter 
there." 

"Has  not  the  plan  been  very  suddenly  formed  ?"  The 
tone  in  which  these  words  were  uttered  fell  very  unpleasantly 
on  Fanny's  ear.  She  could  not  determine  whether  it  was 
indicative  of  the  sadness  which  so  often  oppressed  his  spirits, 
©r  of  disapprobation  of  her  intended  journey.  "  May  I  in- 
quire," continued  he,-  "what  has  led  to  so  sudden  a  resolu- 
tion ?"  This  question  was  asked  in  a  milder  tone,  as  though 
he  would  fain  remove  the  chill  which  the  former  one  had 
thrown  over  his  auditor. 

"I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  my  cousin,  giving  me 
a  pressing  invitation  to  spend  the  winter  with  her ;  and  " 

"  And  you  anticipate  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  so  do- 
ing ?" 

There  was  to  Fanny's  quick  ear  something  of  reproach 
and  bitterness  in  the  tone  of  this  remark.  Appearing  not  to 
notice  it,  or  rather  hoping  that  her  ear  had  deceived  her, 
she  replied, — 

"I  certainly  anticipate  some  pleasure  and  improvement, 
or  I  should  not  think  of  going." 

"  How  can  your  friends  at  home  do  without  you  !"  This 
was  spoken  in  a  soft  and  serious  manner. 


192 


FANNY  RICHMOND. 


,;  Oh,  they  can  spare  me.  Very  possibly  they  may  be  glad 
to  have  me  out  of  the  way  for  a  time."  This  was  spoken  in 
a  sprightly  tone,  assumed  to  assist  her  in  struggling  against 
the  oppressive  feeling  which  was  stealing  over  her. 

"  Do  you  mean  what  you  say  V*  said  Parker,  with  mingled 
sadness  and  severity. 

"Why  not  V  said  Fanny,  still  struggling  against  the  fee!- 
ing  just  noticed  :  "there  are  few  so  interesting  as  to  render 
their  presence  always  desirable."  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
she  retained  her  lively  manner ;  and  her  heart  sunk  deeper 
within  her  when  she  saw  the  construction  which  might  be 
put  on  the  words  last  uttered. 

"It  is  well,"  said  Parker,  coldly,  "when  those  who  do  not 
belong  to  that  interesting  class,  have  the  independence  to 
absent  themselves  when  their  presence  is  not  desired.  Good 
night,  Miss  Richmond  :  may  you  have  a  pleasant  visit  to 
New-York,  and  may  you  find  there  new  friends  more  worthy 
of  your  regard." 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Parker,"  said  Fanny,  in  a  firm  tone, 
her  indignation  being  roused  by  his  injustice.  In  an  instant, 
however,  this  feeling  had  passed  away.  She  arose,  and 
went  to  the  door,  hoping  that  in  the  quick  transitions  of  feel- 
ing of  which  he  was  susceptible,  a  softer  one  would  come 
over  him  which  would  lead  him  to  return,  and  spend  his 
accustomed  half-hour  in  a  manner  befitting  their  expected 
separation.  But  he  passed  on  without  a  reverted  look  until 
his  form  was  no  longer  visible  in  the  gathering  darkness. 
Fanny  then  retired  to  her  chamber,  and  wept  long  and 
bitterly. 

Parker  had  become  acquainted  with  Miss  Richmond  du- 
ring the  last  vacation  of  his  collegiate  course.  It  was  while 
she  was  spending  a  few  days  with  a  relative  at  a  distance 
from  her  home.  From  the  moment  of  his  introduction  to 
her,  his  attentions  were  as  unremitting  as  his  intense  devo- 
tion to  his  studies  would  allow.  He  selected  her  native  vil- 
lage as  the  scene  of  his  professional  studies,  solely  on  her 
account.  Ambition  burned  in  his  bosom  with  fierce  inten- 
sity, and  yet  the  aspiration  of  his  heart  exerted  over  him  a 


FOR  AN  ALBUM. 


I9.r) 


The  nuptials  were  soon  after  celebrated  with  regal  pomp, 
amid  the  joyous  acclamations  of  the  people  ;  and  thus  the  world 
beheld,  what  seemed  more  like  a  tale  of  fiction  than  reality,  a 
humble  maiden  elevated,  by  her  virtues,  to  the  lofty  honors  of 
the  Imperial  throne. 


LORD  STANHOPE  TO  LADY  SHIRLEY, 

IN    APOLOGY    FOR    AN    EXCESSIVELY    LATE  CALL- 


Too  late  I  staid— forgive  the  crime — 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours ; 
For  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  time, 

That  only  treads  on  flowers. 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  the  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass  1 

Or  who  to  sober  measurement, 
Time's  happy  fleetness  brings, 

When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  to  his  wings  1 

 o  

FOR  AN  ALBUM. 
I  saw  the  morning's  golden  beam 
Lie  bright  upon  a  passing  stream  : 
I  saw  at  eve — 'twas  sparkling  yet, 
And  pure  as  when  at  first  they  met ; 
And  thus  the  joys  that  gaily  now 
Give  beauty  to  thy  snowy  brow, 
Still  may  they  o'er  thy  life-tide  shine, 
And  gild  thy  spirit's  last  decline. 


TEANSIENT  JOYS. 


I  saw  a  bright-eyed,  laughing  child,  reach  upon  tiptoe  for  a 
rose  that  grew  upon  the  topmost  branch  of  a  tall  bush. 

After  many  an  ineffectual  struggle,  she  at  last  attained  the 
prize  ;  and  in  an  ecstacy,.  admiring  the  soft  petal,  and  enjoying 
its  sweet  perfume,  she  skipped  away  to  communicate  her  plea- 
sure to  her  companions.  I  saw  her  an  hour  after,  and  sorrow 
now  clouded  that  once  happy  countenance ;  the  tear  of  disap- 
pointment stood  in  her  eye  ;  she  was  gazing  on  the  rose,  but  its 
leaves  were  faded  and  drooping,  its  fragrance  had  fled  away 
in  the  air,  and  its  beauty  gone  forever  ! 

We  stood  upon  the  porch  of  a  friend,  looking  out  with  admir- 
ing eyes  on  nature's  lovely  velvet,  that  overspread  the  ample 
lawn,  and  suddenly  there  came  bounding  over  the  fence  a  fawn 
whose  white  spots  still  lingered  on  its  yellow  coat.  "We  won- 
dered how  the  timid  creature  dared  to  venture  near  the  habita- 
tion of  man,  its  foe.  But  in  another  moment  we  saw  the  object 
which  had  lured  it  away  from  its  own  instinct ;  it  had  gained 
confidence  in  the  little  girl  who  stood  with  gathered  leaves  to 
give  the  loved  one  its  accustomed  supper.  They  gambolled  and 
skipped  about  on  the  grass  together,  and  in  the  sparkling  eye 
of  the  damsel  you  could  read  how  deeply  she  loved  the  petted 
fawn. 

The  morning  sun  rose  brightly,  and  the  balmy  air  gave  spring 
to  every  nerve,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  be  happy."  And  never 
were  two  creatures  more  happy  than  were  the  child  and  her 
fawn.  Happy  in  each  other,  and  as  they  bounded  along  to- 
gether, the  four-footed  creature  outran  its  benefactress,  and 
sought  in  distant  meadows  the  first  nippings  of  tender  grass. 
An  hour  after  this,  a  deep  wail  of  agony  broke  on  every  ear, 
and  brought  each  member  of  the  household  to  the  scene  of 
grief.  The  spotted  fawn,  lifeless  and  bloody,  torn  by  unpitying 
dogs,  was  brought  to  its  doating  mistress.    Here  was  sorrow 


TRANSIENT  JOYS. 


197 


that  could  not  be  assuaged,  for  her  whole  heart  was  bound  up 
in  the  fawn,  and  no  promised  joy  could  obliterate  the  remem- 
brance of  this  she  had  lost 

Again  :  I  saw  an  indulgent  father  purchase  for  his  boy  a 
horse  of  passing  beauty.  The  Bucephalus  of  Philip's  son  was 
not  more  gallant  in  his  bearing,. and  never  was  Arabian  steed 
more  fleet  more  docile,  and  never  one  more  sagacious.  The 
kind  attentions  of  the  youth  were  not  lost  upon  the  animal ;  in 
vain  might  the  hostler  manoeuvre,  in  vain  the  lads  pursue  ;  no 
other  hand  but  his  master's  could  take  him  in  the  field ;  and  the 
boy's  whistle  was  always  returned  by  an  affectionate  neigh. 
Proudly  and  gaily  he  rode  among  his  compeers,  and  out-stripped 
them  all  in  the  race.  But  his  joy,  too,  was  destined  to  be  short- 
lived. 

One  bright  day,  a  pet  of  nature,  that  inspired  every  living 
thing  with  gaiety,  the  horses  running  in  playful  mood  in  the 
field,  the  fleetest,  foremost,  fell  upon  a  sharp  stake,  which  en- 
tered his  heart,  and  left  him  upon  the  field,  impaled  and  dead. 

But  I  looked  away  from  childhood's  giddy  hour,  to  man  in 
reason's  prime.  I  saw  the  fine  estate,  the  accumulation  of  half 
a  century's  toil,  swept  suddenly  away  by  one  ill-judged  act,  one 
rash  endorsement !  Who  has  not  seen  the  man  of  fortune  made 
pennyless  by  change  of  time  ? 

A  ship  sinks,  a  bank  breaks,  and  the  broken-hearted  father  is 
plunged  in  despair.  She  who  once  rolled  in  affluence,  now  begs 
in  penury,  while  the  daughter,  fed  by  golden  spoon,  now  stitches 
by  the  midnight  lamp  to  earn  her  bread. 

But  yesterday  I  looked  upon  a  neighbor's  family,  whose  cup 
of  earthly  happiness  seemed  filled  to  overflowing.  His  ample 
fortune  had  reared  a  splendid  mansion,  and  furnished  it  with 
elegance  and  taste.  Every  comfort  and  every  luxury  were  at 
his  bidding ;  and  to  share  all  this  was  one  whose  beauty  at- 
tracted every  eye,  and  whose  gracefulness  drew  forth  the  admira- 
tion of  each  beholder ;  while  her  elegance  of  form  and  manner 
gained  her  respect  on  the  first  interview,  her  affability  and  ele- 
vation of  mind  chained  to  her  every  intimate  friend.  We  saw 
her  in  her  own  hospitable  saloon,  among  gems,  the  brilliant  of 
chief  attraction,  the  spirit  that  animated  and  charmed  all  around 
her. 

The  elegance  of  her  attire  well  became  her  symmetrical  form ; 


198 


OUR  COMMON  JOYS 


and,  while  all  admired,  the  eye  of  her  husband  rested  on  her,  oft 
and  again,  with  doating  fondness.  A  few  morns  passed  over 
us,  when  a  deep  but  subdued  moaning  called  our  attention. 
We  gathered  around,  but  not  for  hilarity.  The  well-turned  arm 
lay  motionless  by  her  side,  that  expressive  eye  was  lustreless  ; 
the  diamond  had  fallen  from  its  casket,  and  beautiful  as  that 
casket  was,  we  touched  but  to  recoil,  for  death's  icy  hand  had 
ruined  it. 

Yes,  we  gathered  around,  to  carry  to  her  last  home  this  beau- 
teous and  beloved  woman  !  And  who  can  paint  the  agony,  or 
soothe  the  sorrow  of  that  stricken  heart  that  loved  her  best. 
All  that  could  be  said — and  it  was  the  feeling  of  every  soul — 
was,  how  sublunary  is  human  happiness  !  how  transient  the  best 
of  earthly  joys ! 


OUR   COMMON  JOYS. 

BY  C.  D.  STUART. 

Our  common  joys,  oh !  what  are  they  ? 

The  brightest  and  the  best, 
They  glad  us  in  our  busy  walks, 

Are  with  us  when  we  rest ; 
An  angel  band,  they  hover  round 

In  waking  and  in  dream, 
And  o'er  our  hearts,  in  saddest  hours, 

They  shed  a  golden  beam. 

Our  common  joys,  oh  !  what  are  they 

But  blessings  felt  within, 
For  smallest  deeds  of  goodness  done 

Amid  a  world  of  sin  t 
The  mite  we  give  the  child  of  want, 

The  slightest  word  of  cheer, 
That  lifts  a  heart  with  sorrow  bowed, 

Or  dries  a  falling  tear. 

Our  common  joys,  oh  !  what  are  they  ? 

The  priceless  pearls  and  gold, 
Which  Memory  sifts  upon  the  heart 

"When  life  is  growing  old ; 
The  thought  that  we  have  treasured  up 

Where  nought  can  steal  away-*- 
A  consciousness  of  doing  good, 

With  every  passing  day. 


THE  WIT  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


"  Are  his  wits  safe  1   Is  he  not  light  of  brain  V'—Shakspeare. 

Feared  by  the  whole  household,  is  the  Wit  of  the  Family  • 
dreaded  by  cousins  and  connections  ;  avoided  by  visitors  ;  en- 
couraged by  father  and  mother ;  and  conciliated  by  brothers 
and  sisters.  He  is  Sir  Oracle,  and  when  he  "  opes  his  mouth, 
let  no  dog  bark."  Conticuere  omnes — all  listen,  all  applaud. 
His  platitudes  are  ranked  above  proverbs,  and  his  paradoxes 
are  prodigious.  His  forte  is  sarcasm,  and  he  is  apt  upon  occa- 
sion to  be  terribly  severe.  He  considers  fault-finding  an  indi- 
cation of  superior  discernment,  and  to  "  run  down"  people  and 
things  in  general  is  his  delight.  His  rudeness  is  tolerated  on 
account  of  his  wit,  and  his  reputation  for  humor  frequently 
saves  him  from  chastisement.  His  repetitions  of  worn-out  jokes, 
his  second-hand  sayings,  cram  his  cocta,  are  quoted  as  extraordi- 
narily clever,  and  although  the  family  have  heard  each  and 
every  one  of  his  jests  a  thousand  times,  they  are  ready  to  expire 
with  laughter  whenever  he  retails  them.  If  a  stranger  happen 
in  at  dinner,  or  for  the  evening,  he  at  first  finds  it  difficult  to 
comprehend  the  reason  of  the  frequent  cachinatory  explosions, 
whenever  a  certain  stupid  looking  youth  makes  a  common-place 
repartee,  or  rehearses  an  antique  anecdote ;  but  the  mystery 
soon  becomes  solved,  and  his  mind  enlightened,  when  he  is  in- 
formed— as  he  is  certain  to  be,  before  he  has  been  in  the  house 
a  quarter  of  an  hour — that  Bob  is  "  wonderful  smart,"  the  most 
satirical  chap,  the  capitalest  mimic,  the  admirablest  punster,  so 
amusing,  so  droll,  so  queer,  so  funny — in  short,  the  acknow- 
ledged "  Wit  of  the  Family:' 

Bob  was  a  dull  boy  at  school — a  very  dull  boy,  but  so  was 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  He  was  always  at  the  foot  of  his  class, 
never  would  learn  his  lessons,  never  passed  a  fair  examination 
in  any  one  study,  but  neither  did  Richard  Brindley  Sheridan. 
Great  archetypes  these  for  dolts  and  dunces  at  school.  The 


200 


THE  WIT  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


example  was  appropriate,  the  parallel  perfect,  so  long  as  Bob 
was  a  boy ;  but  from  the  very  moment  he  emergeci  from  child- 
hood, his  models  were  not  imitated  and  the  resemblance  ceased. 
He  was  as  dull  a  youth  in  college,  as  he  had  been  a  boy  at 
school.  He  came  "  within  an  ace"  of  not  getting  his  degree, 
but  consoled  himself  by  saying,  as  many  of  his  predecessors  had 
said  before,  and  so  often,  that  it  had  become  one  of  the  "  stand- 
ing jokes"  in  the  college,  he  intended  to  rise  suddenly  in  the 
world,  and  not  by  degrees. 

After  four  years  passed  in  vacant  idleness  and  profitless 
association  of  congenial  spirits,  Bob  "  studied  the  law,"  of  course 
— that  is,  he  entered  his  name  and  person  in  the  office  of  an 
attorney,  perhaps  his  own  father,  or  some  one  equally  indulgent. 
There  he  dwaddled  for  three  years  ;  read  French  novels,  and 
smoked  segars ;  played  on  a  wind  instrument  at  a  private  musi- 
cal society,  and  frequented  the  opera,  where  he  turned  up  his 
nose  at  the  performance  and  the  ladies'  dresses.  He  was  then 
"  admitted  to  the  bar,"  but  it  strangely  happens  that  he  never 
has  any  business,  nor  a  single  brief,  nor  so  much  as  the  drawing 
up  of  a  deed. 

During  all  this  time,  while  a  dull  boy  at  school,  a  vacant  idler 
at  college,  a  loiterer  about  the  precincts  of  the  law,  he  lives, 
with  occasional  absences,  at  home,  in  his  father's  house,  under 
his  mother's  eye — and  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  so  long  as  that 
household  lasts,  the  Wit  of  the  Famity.  What  would  be  re- 
sented as  insolence  in  another,  is  mere  fun  in  him  ;  what  would 
be  punished  as  unwarrantable  liberties,  is  only  "  his  ways 
what  would  be  frowned  down  as  vulgarity,  is  in  him  freedom 
of  manners.  If  a  friend  comes  in,  and  his  feelings  are  wounded 
by  one  of  Bob's  severe  remarks,  he  is  told  not  to  mind  it,  "  it 
was  only  a  joke  ;" — if  a  young  lady  is  caused  to  blush  crimson 
by  a  queer  allusion,  or  shocked  and  disgusted  by  his  sportive 
familiarity,  she  is  advised  not  to  take  notice  of  it. — "  Bob  is  pri- 
vileged, you  know — he  means  no  harm — he  is  such  a  funny 
fellow !" 

The  family  think  it  very  naughty,  indeed,  for  any  body  to 
kick  Bob,  for  his  impudence,  or  tweak  his  nose  for  one  of  his 
harmless  witticisms,  or  threaten  to  turn  him  out  of  doors  unless 
he  behaved  more  like  a  gentleman.  "  It  is  strange — very — 
that  people  don't  understand  our  Bob  better ;  he  don't  mean 


THE  WIT  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


201 


anything;  itia  all  in  fun."  Nevertheless,  persons  out  of  doors 
who  are  the  subject  of  his  pleasant  sarcasm  and  playful  irony, 
are  in  the  position  of  that  individual  in  the  fable,  who  did  not 
like  to  be  jumped  upon  by  a  donkey.  Therefore,  it  is  always 
safest  for  him  to  confine  his  severity  to  members  of  his  paternal 
household,  and  never  insult  any  lady,  except  when  she  ventures 
on  a  visit  to  his  mother  and  sisters.  It  is  just  possible  for  him 
to  be  tolerated  by  a  few  old  friends  and  near  relations ;  but  he 
cannot  be  sure  of  immunity,  except  when  it  is  perfectly  under- 
stood that  he  is  "  The  Wit  of  the  Family." 

For  my  own  part,  not  being  very  quick  at  taking  a  joke,  or 
guessing  a  conundrum,  or  discovering  the  concealed  meaning 
of  equivocal  grossness,  I  could  never  appreciate  the  cleverness 
nor  admire  the  verbal  dexterity  of  an  acknowledged  wit.  It 
always  seems  to  me,  that  he  is  an  insufferable  bore.  There  are 
few  inflictions  more  tedious  than  the  company  of  one  who  is 
making  perpetual  efforts  to  astonish  you.  I  always  feel  myself 
called  upon  to  say  something  brilliant  by  way  of  rejoinder,  and 
as  I  generally  fail  in  this  respect,  I  am  doubly  annoyed  by  my 
own  stupidity,  and  the  sneers  of  my  interlocutor.  I  am  a  quiet 
man,  one  of  whom  it  cannot  be  said,  as  Steele  sagaciously  ob- 
served of  Shakspeare,  "  he  has  an  agreeable  wildness  of  imagi- 
nation." I  therefore  "  cotton,"  to  use  a  coinage  of  Mrs.  Fanny 
Kemble  Butler,  to  people  who  talk  sense  rather  than  wit,  who 
delight  more  in  extolling  merit  than  in  detecting  faults.  I  value 
the  man  who  possesses  a  sound  judgment  above  him  who  has  a 
turn  for  ridicule.  True  wit  and  genuine  humor  are  qualities  as 
fascinating  as  they  are  rare,  but  nothing  is  more  common  or  dis- 
pleasing, than  an  affectation  of  the  one,  or  low  attempts  at  the 
other. 

There  is  nothing  more  annoying  to  a  sensible  person  than  an 
encounter  with  a  professed  wit.  You  are  constantly  afraid  that 
one  of  his  random  arrows  will  hit  you ;  for,  however  blunt  or 
poorly  feathered  it  may  be,  it  is  sure  to  reach  its  mark,  if  wafted 
and  guided  by  the  laughter  of  those  present.  You  can  neither 
retort  rudeness  when  it  comes  from  such  a  quarter,  nor  resent 
an  insult,  without  incurring  the  imputation  of  a  sudden  and  cap- 
tious temper.  Your  only  refuge  is,  to  adopt  a  forcible  phrase 
of  the  vulgar,  "  to  grin  and  bear  it."  You  may  resolve  at  the 
moment  within  yourself  to  cane  the  professed  wit,  the  first  time 


202 


SIN  NO  MORE. 


you  catch  him  alone ;  but,  before  long,  you  laugh  at  yourself  for 
being  angry  with  a  fool — a  Harlequin  of  society,  who  is  suffered 
to  cut  up  his  antics,  crack  his  traditionary  jests,  and  even  thrust 
his  cap  and  bells  into  your  face,  exciting  nothing  less  than  a 
smile  of  derision. 

Of  those  pretended  votaries  of  Monus,  there  are  many.  They 
differ  in  kind  and  degree.  Some  are  public,  and  they  shine  at 
great  dinners ;  some  are  convivial,  and  they  dazzle  at  small  sup- 
pers ;  some  are  legal,  and  they  coruscate  in  the  courts ;  some 
are  medical,  and  they  make  merry  of  disease  and  death  ;  some 
are  clerical,  and  they  torture  texts  for  the  diversion  of  the 
brethren  ;  and  some  are  domestic,  and  they  are  excruciatingly 
funny  about  everything,  and  thought  the  world  of  at  home,  and 
abominated  everywhere  else — of  whom,  I  have  endeavored  to 
describe  a  specimen  under  his  accorded  title,  "  The  Wit  of  the 
Family." 


SIN  NO  MORE. 

BY    SAMUEL  WOODWORTH. 


A  bong  of  gratitude  begin, 
To  praise  the  God  who  saves  from  sin  ; 
Who  marks  the  penitential  tear, 
And  deigns  the  contrite  sigh  to  hear. 
Who  whispers  peace,  when  we  our  sins  deplore, 
"  Thy  God  condemns  thee  not— offend  no  more." 
But  ah  !  such  love  can  ne'er  be  sung, 
Such  boundless  grace,  by  mortal  tongue, 
For  e'en  celestial  minstrels  deem 
Their  highest  skill  below  the  theme, 
Yet  mortals  can  with  gratitude  adore 
The  God  who  pardons  all  who  "  sin  no  more." 
Dear  Lord,  is  this  condition  all, 
To  fight  the  foes  that  wrought  our  fall  1 
Thus  armed  with  Hope,  I'll  quell  a  host, 
Not  let  my  heavenly  seat  be  lost. 
Oh,  then  repeat  the  sweet  assurance  o'er, 
"  Thy  God  will  not  condemn  thee— sin  no  more." 


THE  NATURALIST: 

OR,     BIRDS    OF     A  FEATHER. 

As  you  pass  along  the  wooded  outskirts  of  the  hamlet,  notice, 
for  a  moment,  that  row  of  sullen,  moody-looking  birds,  about 
twice  the  size  of  a  common  turkey.  They  are  sitting  on  that 
old  log,  resting  from  their  labors  :  labors  that  have  quite  over- 
come them,  and  have,  in  truth,  incapacitated  them  for  a  flight 
above  the  wood.  But  in  what  have  they  been  engaged  ?  And 
why,  as  they  sit  thus  leisurely,  does  not  the  sportsman  make 
them  his  mark  ?  They  are  a  species  of  falcon  or  hawk,  of  a 
giant  size,  and  are  well  known  in  some  parts  of  our  country,  by 
the  familiar  cognomen  of  "  Buzzards."  Those  who  notice  their 
habits,  know  that  they  soar  in  the  air  with  a  watchful  but  slug- 
gish movement,  over  forest  and  Held,  passing  without  observing 
all  the  delightful  perfumes  of  the  blooming  orchard  and  of  the 
clovered  meadow,  deigning  never  to  stoop  to  earth  till  they 
snuff  the  pestilential  air  of  a  dead  and  decaying  animal,  when 
they  quickly  alight  upon  the  carrion  and  engorge  their  depraved 
appetites  upon  the  revolting  morsel.  The  fowling-piece  seldom 
disturbs  them,  for  they  are  utterly  worthless,  except  for  the 
filthy  office  which  they  occupy.  They  are  Nature's  feathered 
scavengers. 

Analogous  to  this  unlovely  bird,  is  a  character  unong  men. 
Yes,  such  is  he  who  loves  to  feast  his  imagination  upon  the  vices 
of  mankind,  who  stores  in  his  mind  nothing  but  the  frailties  of 
his  fellow-beings,  passes  each  amiable  trait  unnoticed,  and 
pounces  with  the  perverted  taste  of  the  turkey-buzzard,  upon 
that  only  which  is  odious.  His  eye  sees  nothing  but  gloomy 
prospects,  his  ear  listens  only  to  hideous  sounds,  his  olfactories 
perceive  nothing  but  the  inodorous.  "Y^hen  a  person  of  distin- 
guished merit  passes  by,  whose  virtues  obtrude  themselves  upon 
his  consideration,  he  either  detects  something  to  find  fault  with, 


204 


THE  NATURALIST  ! 


or  he  allows  Envy  (which  is  rottenness  to  the  bones,)  to  dispos- 
sess him  of  all  the  happiness  he  might  otherwise  feel  in  the 
advancement  of  a  neighbor  to  a  post  of  honor :  and  all  the 
pleasure  he  might  enjoy  in  the  virtuous  conduct  or  useful  life  of 
some  worthy  companion.  And  all  this  hatefulness  of  character, 
in  the  very  height  of  its  imperfection,  is  attained  by  the  indul- 
gence of  an  uncharitable  disposition. 

But  let  us  return  to  the  quiet  portico  of  our  own  little  cot- 
tage ;  and  as  we  enjoy  the  retirement  and  shade  of  the  fragrant 
honey-suckle,  observe  for  a  moment,  that  beautiful  little  thing 
that  darts  from  flower  to  flower  so  quickly  that  we  scarce /Can 
tell  what  it  is.  At  one  moment  we  declare  it  as  a  bee,  but  the 
next  we  are  assured  it  is  a  bird.  Yes,  it  is  the  very  link  between 
the  insect  and  the  feathered  creation.  Our  Maker  seems  to 
have  formed  her  to  elicit  admiration,  and  we  know  not  which  to 
dwell  upon  most,  the  prismatic  colors  of  her  plumage,  the  deli- 
cacy of  her  frame,  or  the  agility  of  her  movements.  But  there 
is  more  than  grace  in  her  action — there  is  music  there.  The 
rapid  flapping  of  her  tiny  wing  produces  the  sound  from  which 
she  takes  her  name  of  Humming-bird. 

But  step  this  way — it  is  a  digression  from  our  subject — but 
only  for  a  moment.  Come  close  to  the  lilac-bush,  raise  yourself 
now  on  tiptoe — look  down,  just  here.  Peep  into  that  thimble-like 
nest,  see  its  miniature  deposit  of  two  little  peas  of  eggs.  "We 
wonder  how  she  hides  her  precious  treasure  from  curious  eyes, 
and  from  the  crushing  hand  of  wanton  boys  !  But  when  we 
behold  those  tiny  patches  of  green  moss,  the  very  color  of  the 
branch  on  which  the  nest  hangs,  so  nicely  thatching  the  whole 
of  her  paradise  home,  that  the  eye  of  the  keenest  is  deceived, 
and  few  would  take  it  for  other  than  a  clumsy  knot,  from  whence 
a  branch  had  some  time  since  been  broken,  we  admire  her  do- 
mestic economy  and  can  scarce  help  exclaiming :  "  Little  one, 
thou  wast  taught  of  thy  Maker."  But  see  her  now,  as  she 
darts  from  flower  to  flower,  and  dips  her  needle-like  beak  into 
the  very  calyx  of  the  deepest,  and  extracts  from  thence  its  sweet- 
est nectar.  She  sees  nothing  but  the  beautiful,  lives  among 
life's  odors,  and  tastes  nothing  but  the  siveets  that  this  world 
affords.  Beautiful  Humming-bird  !  thou  art  a  gem  even  among 
the  handiwork  of  God  !  And  such  among  human  beings  is  he 
whose  benevolent  heart  finds  a  ready  excuse  for  the  peccadilloes 


EVERY-DAY  LIFE. 


205 


and  slips  of  his  fellow-mortals.  He  takes  pleasure  in  the  amia 
bility  of  this  one,  and  delights  in  the  noble  generosity  of  the 
other.  He  sees  and  appreciates  each  excellence  that  adorns 
his  companion,  enjoys  all  that  is  good ;  and  if  forced  at  any 
time  to  notice  something  that  looks  like  fallen  nature,  he  hides 
with  the  mantle  of  that  Heaven-born  charity,  which  "  covers  a 
multitude  of  sins,"  the  faults  which  pain  him  to  his  heart,  and 
drive  him,  perchance,  to  his  closet  to  petition  for  bis  friend  the 
forgiveness  of  a  long-suffering  God.  Reader,  it  is  a  trite  old 
adage,  "  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together." 

And  where  shall  we  find  our  companionship  ?  With  the 
Buzzard  or  the  Humming-bird  ? — with  the  Censorious  or  the 
Charitable  ? 


EVERY-DAY  LIFE. 


A  family  resembles  at  the  same  time  a  poem  and  a  machine. 
Of  the  poetry  of  it  or  the  song  of  the  feelings  which  streams 
through  all  parts  and  unites  them  together,  which  wreathes 
flowers  around  life's  crown  of  thorns,  and  clothes  "  the  bare 
hills  of  reality"  with  the  greenness  of  hope — of  this  every  heart 
knows.  But  the  machinery,  (without  whose  well-accompanied 
movements  V opera  della  vita  is  entirely  unsupported,)  many 
consider  as  unimportant  and  neglect  it.  And  still  this  part  of 
the  plan  of  domestic  life  is  not  the  least  essential,  for  its  harmo- 
nious operation.  It  is  with  this  machinery  as  with  that  of  a 
clock.  If  the  wheels,  springs,  &c,  are  in  •good  order,  the  pen- 
dulum needs  but  a  touch,  and  everything  begins  its  proper  mo- 
tion. Everything  goes  on  in  order  and  quiet,  as  if  of  itself,  and 
the  golden  bands  of  peace  and  prosperity  point  out  all  the  hours 
upon  its  clear  face, 


THE   OLD   APPLE  TREE. 


BY  MBS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS. 


I  am  thinking  of  the  homestead 

With  its  low  and  sloping  roof, 
And  the  maple  boughs  that  shadowed  it, 

With  a  green  and  leafy  woof ; 
I  am  thinking  of  the  lilac  trees, 

That  shook  their  purple  plumes, 
And  when  the  sash  was  open, 

Shed  fragrance  through  our  rooms. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  rivulet, 

With  its  cool  and  silvery  flow, 
Of  the  old  grey  rock  that  shadowed  it, 

And  the  pepper-mint  below. 
I  am  not  sad  nor  sorrowful, 

But  memories  will  come , 
So  leave  me  to  my  solitude, 

And  let  me  think  of  home. 

There  was  not  around  my  birth-place 

A  thicket  or  a  flower, 
But  childish  game  or  friendly  face 

Has  given  it  a  power 
To  haunt  me  in  my  after  life, 

And  be  with  me  again, 
A  sweet  and  pleasant  memory 

Of  mingled  joy  and  pain. 

But  the  old  and  knotted  apple-tree 

That  stood  beneath  the  hill, 
My  heart  can  never  turn  to  it, 

But  with  a  pleasant  thrill. 
Oh,  what  a  dreamy  life  I  led, 

Beneath  its  old  green  shade 
Where  the  daisies  and  the  butter- cups 

A  pleasant  carpet  made. 


THE  OLD  APPLE  TREE. 

'Twas  a  rough  old  tree  in  spring-time, 

When  with  a  blustering  sound, 
The  wind  came  hoarsely  sweeping 

Along  the  frosty  ground. 
But  when  there  rose  a  rivalry 

'Tween  clouds  and  pleasant  weather, 
'Till  the  sunshine  and  the  rain- drops 

Came  laughing  down  together  — 

That  patriarch  old  apple  tree 

Enjoyed  the  lovely  strife, 
The  sap  sprang  lightly  through  its  veins, 

And  circled  into  life  ; 
A  cloud  of  pale  and  tender  buds 

Burst  o'er  each  rugged  bough, 
And  amid  the  startling  verdure, 

The  robins  made  their  vow. 

That  tree  was  very  beautiful 

When  all  the  leaves  were  green, 
And  rosy  buds  lay  opening 

Amid  their  tender  sheen. 
When  the  bright  translucent  dew-drops 

Shed  blossoms  as  they  fell, 
And  melted  in  their  fragrance 

Like  music  in  a  shell. 

It  was  greenest  in  the  summer  time, 

When  cheerful  sunlight  wove, 
Amid  its  thrifty  leafiness, 

A  warm  and  glowing  love  ; 
When  swelling  fruit  blushed  ruddily, 

To  summer's  balmy  breath, 
And  the  laden  boughs  drooped  heavily, 

To  the  green  sward  underneath. 

'Twas  brightest  in  a  rainy  day, 

When  all  the  purple  West 
Was  piled  with  fleecy  storm-clouds, 

That  never  seemed  at  rest ; 
When  a  cool  and  lulling  melody. 

Fell  from  the  dripping  eaves, 
And  soft,  warm  drops  came  pattering 

Upon  the  restless  leaves. 

But,  oh !  the  scene  was  glorious, 
When  clouds  were  lightly  riven, 

And  there,  above  my  valley  home, 
Came  out  the  bow  of  Heaven  ; 


THE  OLD  APPLE  TREE, 


And  in  its  fitful  brilliancy, 

Hung  quivering  on  high, 
Like  a  jeweled  arch  of  paradise, 

Reflected  through  the  sky. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  footpath 

My  constant  visits  made. 
Between  the  dear  old  homestead, 

And  that  leafy  apple  shade ; 
Where  the  flow  of  distant  waters 

Came  with  a  tinkling  sound, 
Like  the  revels  of  a  fairy  hand, 

Beneath  the  fragrant  ground. 

I  haunted  it  at  even-tide, 

And  dreamily  would  lie, 
And  watch  the  crimson  twilight, 

Come  stealing  o'er  the  sky  ; 
'Twas  sweet  to  see  its  dying  gold 

Wake  up  the  dusky  leaves, 
To  hear  the  swallows  twittering 

Beneath  the  distant  eaves. 

I  have  listened  to  the  music — 

A  low,  sweet  minstrelsy, 
Breathed  by  a  lonely  night-bird, 

That  haunted  that  old  troe, 
'Till  my  heart  has  swelled  with  feelings 

For  which  it  had  no  name, 
A  yearning  love  of  poesy, 

A  thirsting  after  fame. 

I  have  gazed  up  through  the  foliage 

With  dim  and  tearful  eyes, 
And  with  a  holy  reverence, 

Dwelt  on  the  changing  skies, 
Till  the  burning  stars  were  peopled 

With  forms  of  spirit-birth, 
And  I've  almost  heard  their  harp-strings 

Reverberate  on  earth. 


THE  SLANDERER. 


Of  all  the  ills,  and  maladies,  and  distempers,  which  "  flesh  is 
heir  to,"  few  indeed  are  so  dangerous  and  deadly,  and  none  so 
insidious  as  slander.  The  dark  insinuation,  the  equivocal  ex- 
pression, the  half-suppressed  sentence,  the  low  whisper — these, 
with  their  appropriate  accompaniments  of  looks,  winks,  and 
nods,  are  the  execrable  weapons  with  which  the  quiet,  smooth- 
tongued slanderer  does  his  work  of  desolation  and  death.  An 
unguarded  expression  often  serves  as  a  foundation  for  the  most 
poisonous  slanders. 

Did  he  attack  you  openly,  you  could  guard  against  the  as- 
saults, and  if  you  should  fall,  fall  fighting  manfully  in  defence 
of  your  honor  and  reputation.  But  no  !  the  blighting  inuendo 
is  passed  from  one  to  another,  until  the  whole  town  is  in  posses- 
sion of  it,  with  all  its  snow-ball-like  accumulation,  and  all  the 
way  along  the  blasting  secret  has  traveled  under  the  protection 
of  confidential  secresy,  so  that  the  injured,  and  perhaps  ruined 
subject  of  the  slanderer,  is  the  last  to  have  the  doleful  tidings 
sounded  in  his  ears,  and  by  this  time  the  fatal  stigma  has  fas- 
tened upon  him  with  such  weight  of  suspicion,  that  it  may  be 
impossible  in  a  whole  lifetime,  to  cast  off  effectually  the  foul 
assertion. 

The  busy,  meddling  tattler  should  have  the  brand  of  infamy 
burnt  deep  into  his  very  forehead,  and  exposed  to  universal 
scorn ;  but  idle  curiosity  and  itching  ears  give  support  to  the 
hateful  serpent,  and  he  is  enabled  to  live  on  the  vitals  of  virtuous 
society  and  luxuriate  in  the  spoils  of  innocence.  For  the  villain 
who  seeks  your  life  there  is  a  gallows  prepared,  and  standing  up 
in  terorem  ;  for  the  thief  who  robs  you  of  your  property,  a  prison, 
a  penitentiary ,  and  the  just  execration  of  society  ;  but  the  black- 
hearted moral  cannibal  who  secretly  blasts  your  reputation,  the 
fabric  of  many  years  toil  and  virtue,  a  thousand  times  more  val- 
uable than  property,  and  dearer  than  life  itself,  should  be  for 
ever  discountenanced  by  the  worthy  and  "  pure  in  heart,"  and 
banished  from  the  circles  of  a  truth-loving  community; 


210 


A  HIDEOUS  MONSTER. 


That  vilest  of  demons  smiles  at  the  desolation  wrought  by  the 
venom  of  his  tongue,  retains  his  rank  in  society.  "  Oh,  tell  it 
not  in  Gath,  nor  publish  it  through  the  streets  of  Askelon,"  and 
in  many  instances,  unimpeached  in  his  standing  in  the  Church 
of  Christ  also.  The  murderer  is  a  Christian,  the  foe  a  friend, 
the  robber  a  saint,  compared  with  the  moral  turpitude  of  the 
saintly-seeming  slanderer,  who,  with  the  tongue  of  an  angel,  com- 
bines a  heart  as  black  as  the  smoke  of  perdition. 


A  HIDEOUS  MONSTER. 


There  exists  in  society,  a  hideous  monster  known  to  all, 
though  no  one  disturbs  it.  Its  ravages  are  great,  almost  incal- 
culable; it  slays  reputations,  poisons,  dishonors,  and  defiles  the 
splendor  of  the  most  estimable  form.  It  has  no  name,  being  a 
mere  figure  of  speech,  a  very  word.  It  is  composed  of  but  one 
phrase,  and  is  called — They  say.  "  Do  you  know  such  a  one  ?" 
is  often  asked,  and  the  person  pointed  out. 

"  No  ;  but  they  say  he  has  had  strange  adventures,  and  his 
family  is  very  unhappy." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  know  nothing  about  it.    But  they  say — " 

"This  young  woman,  so  beautiful,  so  brilliant,  so  much 
admired — do  you  know  her  ?' 

"  No.  They  say  it  is  not  difficult  to  please  her,  and  that 
more  than  one  has  done  so  ?" 

"  But  she  appears  so  decent,  so  reserved." 

"  Certainly ;  but  they  say — " 

"Do  not  trust  that  gentleman.    Be  on  your  guard — " 
"  Bah  !  his  fortune  is  immense  ;  see  what  an  establishment  he 
has." 

11  Yes  !    But  they  say  he  is  very  much  involved." 

"  Do  you  know  the  fact  ?" 

"  Not  I.    They  say  though—" 

This  "  they  say^  is  heard  in  every  relation  of  life.  It  is 
deadly,  mortal,  and  not  to  be  grasped.  It  goes  hither  and 
thither,  strikes  and  kills  manly  honor,  female  virtue,  without 
either  sex  being  ever  conscious  of  the  injury  done. 


RAHAB. 


209 


At  length  the  foe  turn  to  flight,  with  honor  and  amaze- 
ment and  panic  fears,  and  mutual  slaughter  ;  wading  through 
rivers  of  blood,  and  stumbling  upon  heaps  of  slain.  Upon 
their  broken  rear,  avenging  Joshua  hangs  as  a  lion  upon  a 
retreating  flock,  and  the  shout  of  victory  mingles  with  the 
screams  of  the  vanquished,  that  roll  headlong  over  hill  and 
valley  in  a  rout  more  dreadful  and  full  of  horror  than  when 
Napoleon  fled  from  the  Beresina,  and  left  his  famished  myr- 
midons to  perish  in  her  icy  waves  or  congeal  to  stone  upon 
her  marshy  shores. 

And  now  for  a  moment  the  hero  pauses,  while  with  hands 
lifted  up  to  heaven  he  commands — "Sun  !  stand  thou  still 
on  Gibeon,  and  thou  moon  in  the  vale  of  Aijalon  !''  The 
vanities  of  the  heathen  cannot  hear  them  in  the  day  of  their 
calamity,  but  the  worshipped  orbs  of  heaven  that  they  name 
Baal  and  Astarte,  hear  the  voice  of  Jehovah's  minister,  and 
stand  still  for  a  whole  day  above  the  slaughter  of  their  wor- 
shippers. Again  the  faithful  armies  sing  "Hosannah  to  the 
Most  High  sacred  inviolable  Trinity  !"  and  rush  upon  their 
foes  to  pile  mountains  of  their  slain  around  their  gigantic 
leaders.  From  his  holy  place  in  the  Shechinah's  intolerable 
cloud  above  the  Ark  the  Most  High  bares  his  red  arm,  and 
sends  forth  his  thunderbolts  in  a  storm  of  hail  above  the 
accursed  fugitives.  A  tempest  uproots  the  ancient  oaks  and 
rends  both  rocks  and  hills.  The  nations  melt  like  wax  be- 
fore the  fiery  scourge,  and  encumber  both  hill  and  plain  with 
the  multitude  of  their  slain.  Earth  reddens  the  white  hail- 
stones in  her  ooze  of  bloody  water,  and  the  rivers  run  purple 
between  their  banks  to  the  sea,  bearing  along  heaps  of  shields 
and  heroes,  and  horses  and  chariots  without  number,  upon 
their  swollen  floods. 

Rahab  now  once  more  beholds  with  her  own  eyes  how 
terrible  is  the  Arm  she  has  trusted,  and  that  can  never  fail 
her  in  life  or  death.  If  a  stain  rests  upon  her  former  life, 
it  is  remembered  no  more.  As  the  waters  of  her  baptism 
before  the  Trinal  Unity  of  Israel  have  wet  her  fair  and  honest 
brow,  so  the  interior  waters  of  regeneration  have  cleansed 
her  spirit  from  all  that  can  defile  and  delude  her  free  soul 


210 


RAHAB. 


to  all  eternity!  Become  the  spouse  of  Judah's  mightiest  and 
holiest  patriarch,  she  beholds  new  signs  and  wonders  wrought 
by  faith  against  the  foes  of  Israel.  When  the  chosen  armies 
cried  out  with  defeat  and  dishonest  wounds  before  Ai,  she 
was  there  ;  and  when  Achan,  with  his  whole  race,  perished 
for  sacrilege  in  the  valley  of  Achor,  she  was  there.  She 
beheld  with  fear  when  Victory  returned  to  perch  again  upon 
their  standard,  and  the  devoted  city  blazed  to  heaven  like 
a  volcano  from  the  sea.  She  heard  with  contempt  when 
a  hundred  kings  leagued  to  defend  their  towers  from  the 
insupportable  advance  of  Israel;  and  now  she  exults  over 
the  bleeding  remains  of  their  once  terrible  array  in  Gibeon. 
She  is  present  when  the  smoke  of  a  hundred  cities  goes  up 
to  heaven,  and  the  hosts  of  the  confederate  kings  that  remain 
melt  like  clouds  over  the  land,  at  Makkedah,  and  Libnah, 
and  Lachish,  and  Eglon,  and  Hebron,  and  Debir  and  Hazor 
by  the  waters  of  Merom,  and  over  the  whole  land  from 
Lebanon  and  Hermon,  hoary  with  snow  and  ice  in  the  midst 
of  summer,  to  Beersheba  and  the  river  of  Egypt,  where  cara- 
vans faint  beneath  the  parching  air,  and  from  Gilead  east- 
ward beyond  Jordan  to  the  sea-shore,  where  the  Philistine 
or  the  Sidonian  towers  hold  the  last  remnant  of  the  giant 
race  reserved  to  shame  when  Samson  with  his  single  arm 
shall  defy  them  all,  and  when  Jesse's  son  shall  give  their 
flesh  to  be  a  prey  for  the  devouring  of  ravenous  birds. 

Rahab  has  become  the  spouse  of  a  prince,  and  sits  honor- 
ed among  women,  through  the  power  of  her  faith  and  pious 
trust  in  the  God  of  a  foreign  covenant.  The  poor  inn-keeper 
of  Jericho  is  become  a  princess,  and  her  maternal  arms  em- 
brace the  heir  of  promise,  whose  future,  race  shall  "sit  on 
thrones  to  judge  the  twelve  tribes  of  Israel and  last,  Mes- 
siah shall  come  to  fulfil  in  himself  all  the  glory  of  the  ancient 
covenant  and  the  hope  of  the  world. 

But  time  spares  not  the  venerable  locks  of  the  aged  more 
than  the  purple  bloom  of  the  young.  The  longest  and  most 
honoied  life  must  come  to  a  close;  and  the  spirit  of  the  just 
must  rise  in  her  brightness  from  the  earth,  smoking  with 
blood,  and  change  to  a  star  in  the  firmament  of  God.  Rahab 


THE   TWILIGHT  HOUR. 


211 


has  lived  to  see  what  few  have  seen,  and  to  rejoice  with  a 
joy  experienced  by  but  few  among  the  most  favored  of  our 
race.  She  has  lived  and  acted  in  the  midst  of  scenes  that 
will  never  be  repeated  or  forgotten,  and  shines  as  the  fairest 
and  brightest  star  of  her  time.  But  Rahab  has  not  only 
lived  by  faith,  for  faith  shall  guide  her  beyond  the  grave. 
She  too  must  depart,  and  men  in  their  harsh  dialect  will  call 
this  death  ;  though  she  will  find  it  the  only  true  life  to  leave 
this  wearisome  and  pained  flesh  to  sleep  a  long  night  in  the 
grave,  that  her  freed  spirit  may  mix  without  reproof  among 
the  firstborn  spirits  of  the  world  before  the  throne,  and  from 
the  smile  of  Him  who  shall  become  God-Man  from  her  race, 
drink  everlasting  joy. 


THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR. 


BY  FRANCIS  C.  WOODWORTH. 


The  twilight  hour !  I  love  it  well, 

When  golden  clouds  enrobe  the  west; 
It  sheds  around  a  holy  spell, 

And  lulls  the  care- Worn  soul  to  rest. 
As  fades  the  sunlight  from  the  hill, 

When  sleep  steals  o'er  the  eye  of  day, 
So,  at  this  tranquil  hour  and  still, 

So  fade  my  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

Oft  as  returns  the  twilight  time, 

And  stars  beam  faintly  in  the  sky, 
A  spirit  from  a  fairer  clime — 

A  loved  and  lost  one  hovers  nigh. 
That  angel  form,  I  see  it  then, 

T  listen  to  her  hallowed  prayer, 
And  all  her  words  of  love  again 

Fall  softly  on  the  evening  air. 

When  blends  the  night  with  fading  day, 

How  sweet  the  twilight's  soothing  power! 
Ye  sunlit  hours,  glide,  glide  away, 

And  bring  that  happier,  holier  hour. 
The  twilight  hour!  1  love  it  well, 

When  painted  clouds  enrobe  the  west 
It  sheds  around  a  holy  spell, 

And  bids  the  care-worn  spirit  rest. 


THE    WIDOW'S  DREAM. 


L  had  a  dream,  a  pleasant  dream,  for  thou  vvert  by  my  side, 
In  the  flush  of  manly  beauty,  and  in  all  thy  strength  and  pride : 
A  healthy  bloom  was  on  thy  cheek,  a  brightness  in  thine  eye, 
And  I  heard  thy  voice  of  melody  come  trembling  softly  by. 

It  was  a  dream — and  yet  methought  I  felt  upon  my  brow 
The  pressure  of  thy  gentle  hand — I  feel  that  pressure  now ; 
But  when  I  start  with  wild  delight  to  fall  upon  they  neck, 
I  stand  all  lone  and  desolate — to  misery  awake ! 

It  seems  but  yesterday  !  stood  a  blest  and  happy  bride, 
And  fondly  gazed  into  thine  eyes,  and  saw  thy  glance  of  pride. 
We  little  thought  how  deep  a  night  would  close  that  cloudless  day, 
How  soon  thy  gentle  spirit,  love,  would  rise  and  soar  away ! 

I  saw  thee  falling  -mdderiiy — they  told  me  thou  must  die ; 
A  death-like  chill  was  on  my  heart,  a  tear  within  mine  eye  ; 
I  bent  above  thy  marble  brow,  and  saw  the  paleness  there, 
And  put  the  clustering  ringlets  back,  in  mute  and  dark  despair. 

Oh  !  none  may  know  the  agony  that  tore  my  bleeding  heart, 
When  I  pressed  thy  white  and  icy  cheek,  and  saw  thy  life  depart: 
One  look  of  love  unspeakable  beamed  from  thy  dying  eyes, 
And  then  thy  spirit  freed  from  earth,  had  soared  beyond  the  skies. 

Oh  !  would  that  I  might  pierce  the  veil  that  hides  the  spirit-land, 
And  listen  to  the  heavenly  strains  that  flow  beneath  thy  hand ! 
Oh !  would  that  I  might  gaze  upon  the  crown  that  gilds  thy  brow, 
And  see  thy  face  all  radiant  with  smiles  of  rapture  now. 

Within  the  green  and  silent  grave  they've  laid  thee  down  to  rest, 
With  thy  cold  and  marble  fingers  folded  lightly  on  thy  breast: 
But  thou  ne'er  shalt  see  the  springing  buds  that  blossom  o'er  thy  brow, 
For  the  flowers  which  never,  never  fade,  are  blooming  round  thee  now 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


BY  MRS.  E.  C.  EMBURY,  AUTHOR  OF  "  CONSTANCE  LATIMER,"  ETC 


"  Pause,  heedless  mortal,  and  reflect !    This  day — 
This  very  hour — nay,  yesterday,  mayhap, 
Thou  mayst  have  done  what  cannot  be  recalled, 
And  steeped  thy  future  years  in  darkest  night 
Some  trivial  act  or  word,  now  quite  forgot, 
May  have  impelled  the  iron  wheels  of  fate, 
Which  onward  roll  to  crush  thee  in  their  course." 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  many  lovely  villages 
which  lie  within  the  foldings  of  the  Connecticut  river,  is 
Elmsdale.  Occupying  a  small  peninsula,  around  which  the 
'  stream  winds  so  closely  that  at  the  first  view  it  seems  entirely 
separated  from  the  main  land,  and  lying  aside  from  the  high- 
road which  traverses  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut,  Elmsdale 
is  one  of  the  most  quiet  and  sequestered  spots  to  be  found 
in  New-England.  Like  most  places  which  offer  no  induce- 
ment to  the  spirit  of  speculation,  the  village  is  inhabited 
chiefly  by  the  descendants  of  those  who  had  first  settled 
there.  The  old  men  have  been  companions  in  boyhood,  and 
have  sported  in  the  same  fields  which  now  echo  to  the  merry 
shouts  of  their  grandchildren.  The  most  of  them  still  culti- 
vate the  farms  which  belonged  to  their  forefathers,  and  even 
the  adventurous  few  who  have  been  tempted  to  go  out  into 
the  world  beyond,  usually  return  to  finish  their  days  on  their 
native  soil. 

The  arrival  of  a  stranger  in  a  retired  village  is  always  a 
subject  of  curiosity  and  interest ;  but  in  a  place  like  Elms- 
dale, where  everybody  knew  his  neighbor,  such  an  unusual 
event  excited  special  attention.  When,  therefore,  it  was 
known  throughout  the  hamlet  that  a  strange  lady  had  come 
to  pass  the  summer  with  old  farmer  Moody,  all  the  gossips 


214  ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 

.were  on  the  alert  to  find  out  who  she  could  be.  But  they 
derived  little  satisfaction  from  their  skilful  questioning  of  the 
farmer;  all  he  knew  was  soon  told.  The  lady  was  traveling 
for  health,  and  having  been  pleased  with  the  situation  of  his 
comfortable  abode,  had  applied  to  be  received  as  a  boarder 
during  the  summer  months,  offering  to  pay  liberally  in  ad- 
vance.  Her  evident  ill-health,  her  gentle  manners,  and  the 
temptation  of  her  ready  gold,  prevailed  on  the  thrifty  farmer 
to  assent,  and  the  stranger  took  possession  of  a  neat  chamber 
in  his  pleasant  cottage. 

Close  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  on  a  little  eminence  com- 
manding a  view  of  the  country  around  Elmsdale,  stood  a 
singularly  constructed  stone  building  which  had  long  been 
unoccupied  and  deserted.  Its  original  owner  and  projector 
was  a  man  of  singular  habits,  whose  eccentricity  had  been 
universally  regarded  as  a  species  of  harmless  insanity.  Rich 
and  childless,  he  had  erected  this  mansion  according  to  his 
own  ideas  of  Gothic  architecture,  and  nothing  could  be  more 
grotesque  than  its  whole  appearance.  It  soon  obtained  the 
appellation  of  "  Hopeton's  Folly and  though  he  whose  name 
it  bore  had  long  since  occupied  a  narrower  house  in  the  silent 
land,  and  the  property  had  passed  into  other  hands,  the 
deserted  mansion  was  still  known  by  the  same  title.  Great 
was  the  surprise  of  the  villagers  when  it  was  known  that 
the  strange  lady  had  become  the  purchaser  of  Hopeton's 
Folly,  and  that  in  future  she  would  reside  permanently  in 
Elmsdale.  Curiosity  was  newly  awakened,  and  every  body 
was  desirous  to  know  something  about  one  who  seemed  so 
unprotected  and  solitary.  But  there  was  a  quiet  dignity  in 
her  manners  which  rebuked  and  disconcerted  impertinent 
inquiry,  while  all  efforts  to  draw  some  information  from  her 
single  attendant — an  elderly  sedate  woman,  who  seemed  to 
hold  a  middle  rank  between  companion  and  servant — were 
equally  unsuccessful. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Norwood  been  long  a  widow?"  asked  a  perti- 
nacious newsmonger,  who  kept  the  only  thread  and  needle 
shop  in  the  place,  and  therefore  had  a  fine  opportunity  of 
gratifying  her  gossipping  propensities. 


ELEANOR  AOllWOOD. 


215 


"It  is  now  nearly  two  years  since  she  lost  her  husband," 
was  the  reply  of  the  discreet  woman,  who  was  busily  em- 
ployed in  selecting"  some  tape  and  pins. 

"Only  two  years,  and  she  has  already  laid  aside  hei 
mourning  !"  exclaimed  the  shopkeeper  ;  "  but  1  suppose  that 
is  an  English  fashion  ?" 

The  woman  made  no  reply,  and,  consequently,  the  next 
day,  all  the  village  was  given  to  understand  that  Mrs.  Nor- 
wood's help  had  told  Miss  Debby  Tattle  that  Mrs.  Norwood 
was  a  very  rich  widow  who  had  just  arrived  from  England. 
This  was  all  that  Miss  Debby's  ingenuity  could  make  out 
of  the  scanty  materials  which  she  had  been  able  to  obtain, 
and  wTith  this  meagre  account  people  were  obliged  to  be 
satisfied. 

Mrs.  Norwood  was  one  of  those  quiet,  gentle  beings,  who, 
though  little  calculated  to  excite  a  sudden  prepossession, 
always  awakened  a  deep  and  lasting  interest.  Her  age 
might  have  been  about  eight  and  twenty  ;  but  the  ravages 
of  illness,  and,  perhaps,  the  touch  of  a  still  more  cruel  de- 
stroyer, had  given  a  melancholy  expression  to  her  counte- 
nance, and  a  degree  of  gravity  to  her  manners,  which  made 
her  seem  older.  Her  features,  still  classically  beautiful,  were 
attenuated  and  sharpened,  her  complexion  was  pale  almost 
to  ghastliness,  and  her  thin,  flexible  lips  were  perfectly  color- 
less. But  she  possessed  one  charm  which  neither  time  nor 
disease  could  spoil.  Her  eyes — those  dark,  soft,  lustrous  eyes, 
with  their  veined  and  fringed  lids,  beautiful  alike  when  the 
full  orbs  were  veiled  beneath  their  shadowy  lashes,  or  when 
their  beaming  light  turned  full  upon  an  object  of  regard — 
were  the  most  distinguishing  trait  in  Mrs.  Norwood's  counte- 
nance. No  one  dreamed  of  calling  her  beautiful,  but  all 
noticed  the  grace  of  her  tall  and  slightly  bending  figure,  her 
courteous  and  lad^  >d  manners,  her  low,  sweet  voice,  and 
the  touching  air  of  melancholy  which  seemed  to  characterize 
her  every  movement. 

Under  the  direction  of  its  new  mistress,  Hopeton's  Folly 
was  now  fitted  up  wTith  a  degree  of  neatness  and  comfort 
which  it  had  seemed  scarcely  capable  of  assuming.  Furni- 


216 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


ture,  plain  but  cosily,  was  brought  from  a  distant  town;  the 
grounds  were  laid  out  with  a  view  to  elegance  rather  than 
mere  usefulness ;  and,  in  short,  money  and  good  taste  soon 
converted  the  desolate  spot  into  a  little  paradise  of  beauty. 
The  neighbors,  who,  with  the  kindness  which  generally  pre- 
vails in  every  place  where  fashion  has  not  destroyed  social 
feeling,  had  been  ready  to  afford  Mrs.  Norwood  every  assist- 
ance in  the  completion  of  her  plans,  became  now  equally 
ready  to  share  her  hospitality — and,  for  a  time,  the  newly- 
arranged  mansion  was  always  full  of  well-disposed  but  ill- 
judging  visiters.  But  Mrs.  Norwood's  health  was  soon  made 
the  plea  for  discountenancing  all  such  attentions  on  the  part 
of  the  village  gossips.  Always  courteous  and  hospitable,  she 
yet  declined  all  visitations  to  the  frequent  "hot  water  con- 
ventions," or  "tea  drinkings,"  which  constituted  the  chief 
amusement  of  the  place,  while  she  managed  to  keep  alive 
the  good  feelings  of  her  new  associates  by  many  acts  of  un- 
ostentatious charity.  Simple  in  her  daily  habits,  benevolent 
in  her  impulses,  yet  retiring  and  reserved  in  her  manners, 
Mrs.  Norwood  made  her  faithful  old  servant  the  almoner  of 
her  bounties,  while  the  poor,  the  sick,  and  the  sorrowful  were 
never  refused  admission  to  her  presence.  Her  regular  at- 
tendance on  the  public  duties  of  religion,  in  the  only  church 
which  Elmsdale  could  then  boast,  had  tended  to  establish 
her  character  for  respectability  in  a  community  so  eminently 
moral  and  pious ;  and  when  it  wras  known  that  the  pastor—, 
whose  rigid  ideas  of  propriety  were  no  secret — had  become 
a  frequent  visiter  at  Hopeton's  Folly,  no  doubt  remained 
as  (o  Mrs.  Norwood's  virtues  and  claims  upon  general  sym- 
pathy. 

Mr.  Allston,  who  for  some  ten  years  had  presided  over  the 
single  church  in  a  place  which  had  fortunately  escaped  the 
curse  of  sectarianism,  was  a  man  as  remarkable  in  character 
as  he  wras  peculiar  in  habit.  A  close  and  unwearied  stu- 
dent, ascetic  in  his  daily  life,  and  an  enthusiast  in  his  pro- 
fession, he  was  almost  idolized  by  his  people,  who  regarded 
him  as  a  being  of  the  most  saint-like  character.  Indeed,  if 
self-denial  could  afford  a  title  to  canonization,  he  was  fully 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


217 


competent,  to  sustain  the  claim  ;  but  such  is  the  inconsistency 
of  human  judgment,  that  Mr.  Ailston  owed  his  high  repu- 
tation to  a  belief  in  his  stoical  indifference  to  earthly  temp- 
tations ;  and  much  of  his  influence  would  have  been  dimin- 
ished, if  it  had  been  suspected  that  resistance  to  evil  ever 
cost  him  a  single  effort.  The  truth  was,  that,  nature  had 
made  Ailston  a  voluptuary,  but  religion  had  transformed  him 
into  an  ascetic.  He  had  set  out  in  life  with  an  eager  thirst 
after  all  its  pleasures,  but  he  had  been  stayed  in  the  very 
outset  of  his  career  by  the  reproaches  of  an  awakened  con- 
science. Violent  in  ali  his  impulses,  and  ever  in  extremes, 
he  had  devoted  himself  to  the  gospel  ministry  because  the 
keen  goadings  of  repentance  urged  him  to  offer  the  greatest 
sacrifice  in  his  power  as  atonement,  for  past  sins.  But  he 
had  experienced  all  the  trials  which  await  those  who,  when 
gathering  the  manna  from  heaven,  still  remember  the  savory 
fleshpots  of  Egypt.  His  life  was  a  perpetual  conflict  between 
passion  and  principle,  and  though  his  earthly  nature  rarely 
obtained  the  mastery,  yet  the  necessity  for  such  unwearied 
watchfulness  had  given  a  peculiar  tone  of  severity  to  his 
manners.  Like  many  persons  of  similar  zeal,  Ailston  had 
committed  the  error  of  confounding  the  affections  with  the 
passions  of  human  nature,  and  believing  all  earthly  ties  to 
be  but  fetters  on  the  wings  of  the  soul,  he  carefully  avoided 
all  temptation  to  assume  such  bonds.  His  religion  was  one 
of  fear  rather  than  of  love,  and,  forgetting  that  He  who  placed 
man  in  a  world  of  beauty  and  delight  has  said,  "I  will  have 
mercy  and  not  sacrifice,"  he  made  existence  only  a  protracted 
scene  of  self-devotion  and  privation.  A  superstitious  dread 
of  yielding  even  to  the  most,  innocent  impulses  had  induced 
him  to  suppress  every  feeling  of  his  ardent  and  excitable 
nature.  He  had  turned  from  the  face  of  beauty  and  the 
voice  of  love  with  the  same  dread  as  would  have  induced 
him  to  eschew  the  temptation  of  the  gambling-table  and  the 
wine-cup;  and  his  thirtieth  summer  found  him  still  a  solitary 
student,  by  tne  fireside  of  his  widowed  mother.  His  fine 
talents  as  a  preacher,  his  powers  of  persuasion,  his  thrilling 
eloquence,  aided  by  the  example  of  his  own  habits  of  life, 


218 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


had  produced  a  great  effect  in  the  community  where  he  had 
been  called  to  minister  in  holy  things.  The  church  was  in 
a  most  flourishing  condition ;  numbers  had  been  united  to  it, 
and  the  influence  of  the  pastor  over  the  minds  of  all,  but 
especially  those  of  the  young,  was  almost  unbounded.  Is  it 
strange,  therefore,  that  spiritual  pride  should  have  grown  up 
in  the  heart  of  the  isolated  student,  and  twined  its  parasitic 
foliage  around  many  a  hardy  plant  of  grace  and  goodness? 
Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  if  Charles  Allston  at  length  indulged 
the  fancy  that  he  had  been  set  apart  as  one  chosen  for  a 
high  and  holy  work — that  he  was  destined  to  be  one  of  the 
"vessels  of  honor,"  of  whom  St.  Paul  has  spoken — and  that 
nothing  now  could  sully  the  spotless  garments  in  which  his 
self-denial  had  clothed  him  ? 

Mrs.  Allston  had  been  among  the  first  to  welcome  the  sick 
stranger  to  Elmsdale  ;  and,  pleased  with  the  gentle  grace 
which  characterized  her  manners,  had  lavished  upon  her 
every  kindness.  Mrs.  Norwood  was  grateful  for  her  atten- 
tions, and  seemed  happy  to  find  a  friend  whose  mature  age 
and  experience  could  afford  her  counsel  and  sympathy.  This 
feeling  of  child-like  dependence  on  the  one  hand,  and  ma- 
tronly affection  on  the  other,  was  growing  up  between  them, 
and  served  to  establish  a  closer  intimacy  than  at  first  might 
have  appeared  natural  to  persons  so  entirely  unlike  in  charac- 
ter. Mrs.  Allston  was  a  woman  of  unpretending  good  sense 
and  plain  education,  whose  rustic  habits  and  utter  indiffer- 
ence to  etiquette  made  her  appear  very  different  from  (he 
languid  invalid  whose  elegant  manners  and  refined  language 
marked  her  cultivation  rather  than  her  strength  of  mind. 
But  "accident,"  and  "the  strong  necessity  of  loving,"  may 
often  account  for  friendships  as  well  as  loves,  and  this  world 
would  be  a  sad  desert  of  lonely  hearts,  if  we  could  only 
attach  ourselves  to  our  own  counterparts.  No  one  could 
know  Mrs.  Norwood  intimately,  without  being  irresistibly 
attracted  towards  a  character  of  such  singular  sensitiveness 
and  amiability.  She  seemed  like  one  in  whom  the  elements 
of  strength  had  been  slowly  and  gradually  evolved  by  cir- 
cumstances— for.  though  her  disposition  was  by  nature  yield- 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


219 


ing  and  dependent,  yet  her  habits  of  thought  and  action  were 
full  of  decision  and  firmness.  Gentle  and  feminine  in  her 
j  feelings,  reserved  and  quiet  in  her  demeanor,  she  appeared 
to  a  careless  observer  merely  as  the  dignified  and  discreet, 
because  unprotected  woman.  But  one  who  looked  beneath 
the  calm  surface,  might  have  found  a  deep,  strong  under- 
current of  feeling.  Heart-sickness,  rather  than  bodily  disease, 
had  been  at  work  with  her,  and  the  blight  which  had  passed 
over  her  young  beauty,  was  but  a  type  of  that  which  had 
checked  the  growth  of  her  warm  affections. 

Whatever  might  have  been  Mrs.  Norwood's  feelings  when 
she  first  took  possession  of  her  new  abode,  she  certainly 
seemed  both  healthier  and  happier  after  a  year's  sojourn  in 
Elmsdale.  A  faint  color  returned  to  her  thin  cheek,  a  smile, 
bright  and  transient  as  an  April  sunbeam,  often  lit  up  her 
line  face,  her  features  lost  much  of  their  sharpness  of  outline, 
and  gradually,  almost  imperceptibly,  the  feeble,  drooping 
invalid  was  transformed  by  the  renovating  touch  of  health 
into  the  lovely  and  elegant  woman.  Yet  the  same  pensive- 
ness  characterized  her  usual  manner — the  same  reluctance 
to  mingle  in  society  was  evident  in  her  daily  intercourse  with 
her  neighbors ;  and  to  a  stranger  she  might  still  seem  to  be 
mourning  over  the  memory  of  a  buried  affection.  But  Mrs. 
Allston  and  her  son  alone  knew  better.  They  alone  knew 
that  affection  had  been  crushed  in  its  very  bud  by  unkind- 
ness  and  neglect ;  they  alone  believed  that  the  widow  had 
found  death  one  of  the  best  of  friends,  when  he  relieved  her 
from  the  intolerable  bondage  of  domestic  tyranny.  Not  that 
Mrs.  Norwood  had  ever  confided  to  them  her  former  history  ; 
for  the  slightest  question  which  had  reference  to  the  past, 
always  seemed  to  give  her  exquisite  pain;  but  a  casual  re- 
mark, a  trifling  hint,  a  passing  allusion,  uttered  in  the  confi- 
dence of  friendship,  had  led  them  to  form  such  conclusions. 

Allston  had  at  first  regarded  the  stranger  .merely  as  another 
nember  added  to  his  flock — another  soul  for  which  he  must 
hereafter  be  responsible :  but  a  closer  acquaintance  with  her, 
iwakened  a  much  stronger  interest  in  his  mind.  He  fancied 
hat  her  character  boi  e  a  wonderful  resemblance  to  his  own. 


220 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


He  thought  he  beheld  in  her  the  same  secret  control  over 
strong  emotions,  the  same  silent  devotion  to  deep-felt  duties, 
the  same  earnest  enthusiasm  in  religion,  the  same  abstrac- 
tion from  worldly  pleasures,  as  had  long  been  the  leading 
traits  in  his  character.  He  believed  that  the  difference  of 
sex  and  her  early  sorrow  might  account  for  the  diversities 
which  existed  between  them  ;  and,  actuated  by  the  belief 
that  he  was  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  a  higher  Power, 
who  had  destined  him  for  some  great  and  glorious  work,  he 
persuaded  himself  that  Providence  had  placed  her  in  his  path, 
and  pointed  her  out  to  him,  by  a  mysterious  sympathy,  as 
his  companion  and  fellow-laborer  in  his  future  duties.  Had 
he  not  been  blinded  by  the  self-reliance  which  had  taken  the 
place  of  his  wonted  watchfulness,  the  very  strength  of  his 
feelings  would  have  led  him  to  distrust  their  propriety.  But 
habit  had  rendered  all  his  ordinary  practise  of  self-denial 
so  easy  to  him,  that  he  fancied  himself  quite  superior  to  mere 
earthly  temptation,  and  therefore  he  was  disposed  to  regard 
his  present  excitement  rather  as  a  manifestation  of  the  will 
of  Heaven  than  as  an  impulse  of  natural  affection.  It  cost 
him  much  thought  and  many  severe  conflicts  with  his  doubts 
and  his  zeal,  ere  he  could  decide  upon  the  course  he  should 
pursue.  Determined  not  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  passion, 
but  to  be  governed  entirely  by  a  sense  of  duty,  he  condemned 
himself  to  a  rigorous  fast  of  three  days,  in  the  firm  belief  that 
he  should  receive  some  expression  of  the  Divine  Will.  In  the 
deep  sleep  of  exhaustion  which  fell  upon  him  during  the  third 
night,  Mrs.  Norwood  appeared  before  him  in  a  dream,  wear- 
ing shining  garments,  and  smiling  with  an  expression  of 
perfect  beatitude.  This  was  enough  for  the  wild  enthusiast. 
From  that  moment  he  placed  no  restraint  upon  the  prompt- 
ings of  his  heart,  but,  considering  her  as  one  peculiarly  mark- 
ed out  for  the  same  high  destiny  as  himself,  he  poured  out 
all  the  fulness  of  his  long-hoarded  affections  at  her  feet 

Lonely,  desolate  and  sorrowful,  Mrs.  Norwood  was  almost 
bewildered  by  the  sudden  light  which  seemed  to  break  in 
upon  her  when  she  thus  found  herself  the  object  of  true 
tenderness.    She  had  long  admired  the  genius  of  Mr.  Aliston, 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


221 


and  her  romantic  temperament  peculiarly  fitted  her  to  appre- 
ciate the  peculiarities  of  his  enthusiastic  zeal.  She  had 
,  looked  up  to  him  as  one  as  far  above  her  in  his  unworldly 
sanctity,  as  in  his  gifted  intellect — and  thus  to  find  herself 
the  chosen  of  a  heart  which  had  heretofore  rejected  earth's 
sweetest  gifts  of  tenderness,  was  most  unlooked-for  happiness. 
She  soon  learned  to  love  him  with  a  depth  and  fervor  which 
surprised  even  herself;  yet  she  had  suffered  so  much  in  early 
life,  that  the  presence  of  hope  was  now  welcomed  with  tear- 
ful distrust.  She  dreaded  rather  than  anticipated  the  future, 
and  while  listening  to  the  wrapt  eloquence  of  her  lover,  who 
seemed  to  spiritualize  the  impassioned  language  of  affection, 
she  could  not  but  tremble  to  think  what  a  blank  life  would 
be,  if  this  new-found  bliss  were  suddenly  extinguished.  The 
peculiar  tone  of  Allston's  mind  was  never  more  distinctly 
displayed  than  in  his  courtship.  Of  love  he  never  spoke, 
but  he  dwelt  on  the  high  and  mystical  dreams  which  had 
charmed  his  solitude  ;  he  pictured  passion  under  the  garb 
of  pure  devotion,  and  attired  human  affections  in  the  robes 
of  immaculate  purity,  until  he  had  completely  bewildered 
himself  in  the  mazes  of  his  own  labyrinth  of  fancies.  At 
length  the  decisive  moment  came — and.  in  a  manner  equally 
characteristic  and  unusual,  Allston  asked  Mrs.  Norwood  to 
become  his  wife.  He  was  scarcely  prepared  for  her  excessive 
agitation,  and  still  less  for  her  indefinite  reply. 

"  It  shall  be  for  you  to  decide,  Mr.  Allston,"  said  the  gentle 
widow,  as  she  struggled  with  her  tears:  "I  will  not  pretend 
to  have  misunderstood  your  feelings  towards  me,  nor  will  I 
attempt  to  conceal  the  fact  that  to  your  proffered  affection 
I  owe  the  first  gleam  of  happiness  which  has  visited  my 
weary  heart  since  the  days  of  childhood.  But  I  have  de- 
ceived you — and  I  cannot  accept  your  hand  while  you  re- 
main ignorant  of  the  events  of  my  early  life.  Some  months 
since,  I  wrote  what  I  cannot  bring  my  lips  to  utter,  and  you 
will  find  in  this  manuscript  all  you  ought  to  know.  Judge 
not  too  hardly  of  my  concealment:  my  only  error  has  been 
silence  on  a  subject  with  which  the  world  had  nought  to  do, 
and  this,  I  trust,  your  heart  will  not  visit  with  too  severe  a 
punishment." 


222 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


Allston  took  the  papers,  and,  silent  and  dismayed,  hurried 
to  the  seclusion  of  his  study.  Dreading  some  evil,  though 
he  knew  not  what  shape  it  might  assume,  he  broke  the  seal, 
and  read  as  follows : 

"  Left  an  orphan  at  a  very  early  age,  my  first  recollections 
are  those  of  school  life.  My  parents,  who  were  residents 
though  not  natives  of  the  Island  of  Jamaica,  sent  nte  to 
England  for  my  education,  and,  dying  soon  after  my  depar- 
ture, I  became  the  ward  of  my  mother's  cousin,  a  gay  and 
dissipated  bachelor,  whose  house  offered  not  a  proper  home 
to  a  young  girl.  I  was  the  heiress  to  great  wealth,  but  was, 
at  the  same  time,  a  homeless  and  desolate  chil'd,  who  might 
well  have  envied  the  privileges  of  domestic  affection  which 
are  enjoyed  by  the  offspring  of  poverty.  My  wealth  procured 
me  respect  and  consideration  among  my  teachers  and  a  few 
interested  school-fellows,  while  it  purchased  for  me  exemp- 
tion from  much  of  the  discipline  of  the  school,  as  well  as  from 
many  of  the  studies  which  I  wished  to  avoid.  I  was  there- 
fore little  likely  to  profit  by  the  advantages  of  my  position 
in  life,  while  its  disadvantages  were  in  my  case  greatly  mul- 
tiplied I  was  a  wayward,  wilful,  warm-hearted  child,  full 
of  impulsive  affections,  but  irritable  in  temper,  and.  though 
perfectly  docile  to  the  law  of  kindness,  utterly  beyond  the 
subjugation  of  severity.  Frank  and  confiding  in  my  dispo- 
iition,  I  was  easily  led  to  place  confidence  in  those  who 
treated  me  with  a  semblance  of  affection  ;  and  the  sense  of 
loneliness  which  oppressed  my  heart,  even  in  childhood,  led 
me  rather  to  seek  for  the  friendship  of  those  by  whom  I  was 
surrounded,  while  the  romance  which  shows  itself  in  a  greater 
or  less  degree  in  the  developing  character  of  every  school- 
girl, assumed  in  me  the  form  of  a  morbid  desire  to  inspire 
affection  in  those  whom  Providence  had  placed  around  me, 
to  fill  the  places  of  parents,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  to  my 
desolate  life. 

"  I  was  in  my  fifteenth  year,  full  of  exaggerated  sensibility, 
and  just  beginning  to  model  my  dreams  of  future  happiness 
after  the  standard  afforded  by  my  favorite  novels,  when  3 
circumstance,  apparently  of  trivial  moment,  occurred  to  sha 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


223 


dow  my  whole  life  with  sorrow.  The  only  accomplishment 
in  which  I  made  any  decided  progress  was  that  of  drawing, 
and  in  this  I  had  early  exhibited  both  taste  and  skill.  Our 
drawing-master — an  old  and  wily  Italian — requested  per- 
mission to  introduce  his  nephew,  who  could  materially  aid 
him  in  instructing  us  to  sketch  from  nature  ;  and,  as  it  in- 
volved our  schoolmistress  in  no  additional  expense,  she  readily 
assented.  Our  new  teacher  was  accordingly  introduced  to  us 
under  the  name  of  Signior  Baldini,  but  it  needed  scarcely 
one  look  to  make  us  doubt  his  relationship  to  the  old  man, 
for  his  florid  complexion,  blond  hair,  and  blue  eyes  bore  little 
resemblance  to  the  dark  countenance  and  classical  features 
of  the  fine  Italian  face.  Those  of  us  who  were  novel  read- 
ers immediately  fancied  that  we  could  detect  beneath  this 
humble  disguise  some  noble  heir  or  enamored  youth  who 
sought  to  obtain  access  to  a  ladye-iove  immured  within  the 
walls  of  our  school.  Our  young  and  glowing  hearts,  full  of 
passions  whicn  had  been  prematurely  developed  by  the  mis- 
chievous tenor  of  our  stolen  reading,  and  ready  to  welcome 
any  thing  which  might  give  occupation  to  their  restlessness, 
were  quickly  excited  in  favor  of  the  new  comer.  Our  sketch- 
ing from  natuie  required  us  to  take  many  walks  in  the  vi- 
cinity, and,  though  we  were  never  unaccompanied  by  one 
of  the  female  teachers,  yet  a  thousand  opportunities  for  form- 
ing an  imprudent  intimacy  occurred  during  these  excursions. 
I  soon  found,  however,  that  the  attentions  of  Signior  Baldini 
were  especially  directed  to  me  ;  and  the  vanity  of  my  sex, 
as  well  as  my  own  excited  fancy,  led  me  to  encourage  rather 
than  repulse  his  proffered  advances.  I  cannot  recall  all  the 
details  of  the  vile  conspiracy  to  which  I  fell  a  victim.  Ima- 
gine a  child  of  fifteen  summers  subjected  to  the  arts  of  a  man 
more  than  twice  her  age — a  man  who  had  studied  human 
nature  in  its  worst  forms,  and  therefore  well  knew  how  to 
take  advantage  of  its  slightest  tendency  to  error — a  man 
whose  talents  enabled  him  to  conceal  the  heart  of  a  demon 
beneath  the  features  of  a  dernigod.  Imagine  the  effect  of 
these  arts  upon  a  sensitive  and  romantic  girl,  a  lonely  and 
orphaned  creature  who  was  yearning  for  the  voice  of  affec- 


224 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


tion,  and  weaving  many  a  beautiful  fancy  of  future  happi- 
ness, to  be  found  only  in  reciprocal  affection,  and  you  will 
anticipate  the  result. 

l-  A  well-invented  story  of  high  birth,  unmerited  misfor- 
tunes, and  a  long-cherished  passion  for  me,  awakened  my 
sympathy,  and  I  soon  imagined  that  nothing  could  repay 
my  lover's  tenderness  but  the  bestowal  of  my  hand  and  for- 
tune. I  fancied  myself  deeply  and  devotedly  attached  to 
one  who  had  submitted  to  the  degradation  of  disguise  for 
my  sake;  and,  on  the  day  when  I  attained  my  sixteenth 
year,  I  eloped  with  my  lover,  who  now  dropped  his  assumed 
title  and  adopted  his  true  name  of  Wallingford.  As  my 
guardian  was  at  that  time  in  Paris,  we  met  with  no  moles- 
tation, and  were  privately  married  in  London,  where  we  had 
decided  to  take  up  our  abode.  I  afterwards  learned  that 
those  of  my  teachers  who  had  been  parties  to  the  plot  were 
well  paid  for  their  services,  while  the  only  real  sufferer  was 
the  principal  of  the  establishment,  who  had  been  kept  in 
total  ignorance  of  the  scheme,  and  whose  dignified  sense  of 
propriety  was  shocked  at  having  such  a  stigma  affixed  to 
her  school.  When  my  guardian  returned,  he  read  me  a  lec- 
ture on  my  imprudence,  and  tried  to  satisfy  his  conscience 
for  past  neglect,  by  refusing  to  allow  me  more  than  a  mere 
maintenance  until  I  should  attain  my  majority.  To  this, 
however,  I  refused  submission,  and  the  matter  was  finally 
compromised  in  a  manner  quite  satisfactory  to  both  parties. 
Mr.  Wallingford  immediately  engaged  elegant  lodgings,  and 
we  commenced  living  in  a  style  better  suited  to  my  future 
fortune  than  to  my  actual  income. 

"My  heart  sickens  when  I  look  back  to  the  weary  years 
which  succeeded  my  imprudent  marriage.  As  time  matured 
my  judgment,  I  was  pained  by  the  discovery  of  many  weak- 
nesses and  faults  in  my  husband,  to  which  I  would  willingly 
have  remained  blind.  Yet  the  discovery  of  these  did  not 
impair  the  simple,  child-like  affection  with  which  I  regarded 
the  only  being  on  earth  to  whom  I  was  bound  by  any  ties. 
I  clung  to  him  as  the  only  one  in  the  wide  world  whom  I 
was  permitted  to  love  ;  and  it  required  but  little  effort  on  his 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


225 


part  to  have  strengthened  my  girlish  fondness  into  the  last- 
ing fervor  of  womanly  tenderness.  While  yet  I  remained 
in  my  minority,  Mr.  Wallingford  treated  me  with  some  show 
of  consideration.  Fitful  gleams  of  kindness,  transient  visit 
ings  of  former  fondness,  glimpses  of  the  better  nature  which 
had  been  so  perverted  by  evil  habits,  and  endearments  still 
bestowed  in  moments  of  persuasion,  linked  my  heart  to  the 
ideal  which  I  had  enshrined  in  his  image.  But  no  sooner 
was  I  put  in  possession  of  my  fortune,  than  he  threw  off  the 
mask  entirely.  I  was  too  much  in  his  power  to  render  any 
further  concealment  necessary,  and  he  now  appeared  before 
me  in  all  the  true  deformity  of  his  character.  Dissipated 
in  his  habits,  coarse  in  his  feelings,  low  in  his  pursuits  and 
pleasures,  he  had  only  sought  me  for  the  wealth  which  could 
minister  to  his  depravity. 

"I  will  not  pain  you  by  a  detail  of  the  petty  tyranny  to 
which  I  was  now  subjected.  My  impetuous  temper  was  at 
first  aroused,  but,  alas  !  it  was  soon  subdued  by  frightful  se- 
verity. Indifference,  neglect,  intemperance,  infidelity,  nay, 
even  personal  ill-treatment,  which  left  the  discolored  badge 
of  slavery  upon  my  flesh  for  days  and  weeks,  were  now  my 
only  portion.  Broken  in  health  and  in  spirit,  I  prayed  for 
death  to  release  me  from  my  sufferings,  and  I  verily  believe 
my  husband  sought  to  aid  my  wishes  by  his  cruel  conduct. 
But  the  crushed  worm  was  at  length  compelled  to  turn  upon 
the  foot  which  trampled  it.  I  was  driven  from  my  home — 
a  home  which  my  wealth  had  furnished  with  all  the  appli- 
ances of  taste  and  elegance — and  placed  in  a  farm-house  at 
some  distance  from  London,  while  a  vile  woman,  whose 
name  was  but  another  word  for  pollution,  ruled  over  my 
house.  To  increase  the  horrors  of  my  situation,  I  learned 
that  Wallingford  was  taking  measures  to  prove  me  insane, 
and  thus  rid  himself  of  my  presence,  while  he  secured  the 
guardianship  of  my  person  and  property.  This  last  injury 
aroused  all  the  latent  strength  of  my  nature.  Hitherto  I 
had  been  like  a  child  brought  up  in  servitude  and  crouching 
beneath  the  master's  blow,  but  T  was  now  suddenly  trans- 
formed into  the  indignant  and  energetic  woman. 


226 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


"Alone  and  unaided  I  determined  to  appeal  to  the  taws 
of  the  land  for  redress — and  prudence  directed  me  to  men  as 
wise  as  they  were  virtuous,  who  readily  undertook  my  cause. 
Wallirigford  was  startled  at  my  sudden  rebellion,  but  he  was 
never  unprepared  for  deeds  of  evil.  My  servants  were  su- 
borned, papers  were  forged,  falsehoods  were  blazoned  abroad, 
all  the  idle  gossip  which  had  floated  for  its  passing  moment 
on  the  breath  of  scandal,  like  the  winged  seed  of  some 
noxious  plant  on  the  summer  breeze,  was  carefully  treasur- 
ed ;  and  every  thing  that  power  could  effect,  was  tried,  to 
make  me  appear  degraded  in  character  and  imbecile  in  mind. 
The  circumstances  attending  my  marriage — my  first  fatal 
error,  committed  at  the  suggestion  and  under  the  influence 
of  him  who  now  adduced  it  as  proof  of  my  weakness — was 
one  of  the  evidences  of  my  un worthiness,  while  the  utterings 
of  a  goaded  spirit  and  the  wild  anguish  of  a  breaking  heart 
were  repeated  as  the  language  of  insanity.  But  for  once 
justice  and  equity  triumphed  over  the  quibbles  of  the  law. 
The  decree  of  the  highest  court  in  the  realm  released  me 
from  my  heavy  bondage.  A  conditional  divorce,  which 
allowed  me  full  power  to  marry  again,  but  restrained  my 
husband  from  such  a  privilege,  in  consequence  of  his  well- 
attested  cruelty  and  ill-treatment,  was  the  result  of  our  pro- 
tracted and  painful  law-suit.  My  fortune — sadly  wasted 
and  diminished — was  placed  in  the  hands  of  trustees  for  my 
sole  benefit,  and  I  immediately  settled  upon  Wallingford  a 
sum  sufficient  to  place  him  far  above  want,  upon  the  sole  con- 
dition that  he  never  intruded  himself  into  my  presence. 

"  After  these  arrangements  were  completed,  I  determined 
to  put  the  ocean  between  me  and  my  persecutor.  On  my 
twenty-sixth  birthday — just  ten  years  from  the  day  which 
saw  me  a  bride — I  landed  in  America.  Alas  !  how  changed 
were  all  my  prospects,  how  altered  all  my  feelings  !  1  was 
still  in  the  prime  of  life,  but  hope  and  joy  and  all  the  sweet 
influences  of  affection  were  lost  to  me  forever ;  and,  after 
wandering  from  place  to  place,  I  finally  took  up  my  abode 
in  Elmsdale.  rather  from  a  sense  of  utter  weariness  than 
from  any  anticipation  of  peace.    I  little  knew  that  Providence 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


22? 


had  prepared  for  me  so  sweet  a  rest  after  all  my  sufferings. 
I  little  knew  that  peace  and  hope,  aye,  and  even  happiness, 
were  yet  in  store  for  me.  Resigning  a  name  to  which  1  had 
no  longer  any  claim,  I  resumed  my  family  name  of  Norwood, 
and  sought  to  appear  in  society  as  the  widowed  rather  than 
as  the  divorced  wife.  I  have  thus  avoided  painful  remarks 
and  impertinent  questionings,  while  I  was  enabled  to  secure 
for  myself  a  quiet  retreat  from  the  turmoil  of  the  world. 
Perhaps  to  you,  Charles  Allston,  I  ought  to  have  been  more 
frank — but  surely  you  cannot  blame  me  from  shrinking  from 
the  disclosure  of  such  bitter  and  degrading  memories.  You 
have  now  learned  all  my  early  history — you  have  seen  my 
error,  and  you  have  traced  its  punishment — let  me  now  un- 
fold the  page  which  can  reveal  the  present. 

"A  fancy,  light  as  the  gossamer  which  the  wind  drives 
on  its  wing,  first  led  to  my  marriage.  I  was  a  child  in  heart 
and  mind  and  person,  when  I  became  the  victim  of  arts 
which  might  have  misled  a  wiser  head  and  a  less  susceptible 
heart.  Left  to  myself,  I  should  probably  have  forgotten  my 
first  love  fancy  even  as  one  of  the  thousand  dreams  which 
haunt  the  brain  of  youth.  But  if,  after  my  marriage,  I  had 
experienced  kindness  and  tenderness  from  my  husband,  the 
feeling  would  have  deepened  into  earnest  and  life-long  affec- 
tion, instead  of  curdling  into  hatred  and  contempt  within 
my  bosom.  The  love  of  my  girlhood  was  blighted  even  as 
a  flower  which  blossoms  out  of  time,  and  loneliness  has 
hitherto  been  my  lot  through  life.  Will  you  deem  me  too 
bold,  my  friend,  if  I  tell  you  that  from  you  I  have  learned 
my  first  lesson  in  womanly  duty  ?  Till  I  knew  you,  I  dream- 
ed not  of  the  power  of  a  fervent  and  true  passion — till  I  be- 
held you,  I  believed  my  heart  was  cold  and  dead  to  all  such 
gentle  impulses.  You  have  taught  me  that  happiness  may 
yet  be  found  even  for  me.  In  loving  you,  I  am  but  doing 
homage  to  virtue  and  wisdom  and  piety — in  bowing  down 
before  your  image,  I  am  but  worshipping  the  noblest  attri- 
butes of  human  nature  enshrined  within  your  heart.  I 
dared  not  pour  out  the  fullness  of  my  joy  until  I  had  told 
you  my  sad  tale ;  but  now  that  you  know  all — now  that  no 


228 


KLE4N0R  NORWOOD. 


shadow  of  distrust  can  fall  upon  the  sunshine  of  the  future, 
come  to  me,  and  assure  me  with  your  own  dear  voice  that 
my  troubled  dream  is  now  forever  past,  and  that  the  dawn 
of  happiness  is  breaking  upon  my  weary  heart !" 

To  comprehend  the  full  effect  of  this  letter  on  Charles 
Allston — the  peculiarity  of  his  character — his  strict  ideas  of 
duty — his  devotion  to  his  holy  calling — his  shrinking  dread 
of  anything  which  could,  by  any  possibility,  tend  to  diminish 
his  influence  over  the  consciences  of  his  flock — and  his  long- 
cherished  dread  of  self-indulgence — must  ever  be  borne  in 
mind.  He  had  loved  Eleanor  Norwood  with  a  fervor  start- 
ling even  to  himself,  and,  according  to  his  usual  distrustful 
habits  of  thought,  he  had  feared  lest  the  very  intensity  of 
his  feelings  was  a  proof  of  their  sinfulness.  Accustomed  to 
consider  every  thing  as  wrong  which  was  peculiarly  gratify- 
ing to  himself—  measuring  by  the  amount  of  every  enjoy- 
ment the  extent  of  its  wickedness— restraining  the  most 
innocent  impulses  because  he  conceived  heaven  could  only 
be  won  by  continual  sacrifices — he  had  shrunk  in  fear  and 
trembling  at  his  own  temerity  when  his  overmastering  pas- 
sion led  him  to  pour  forth  his  feelings  to  the  object  of  his  love. 
He  had  retired  to  his  apartment  in  a  state  of  pitiable  agi- 
tation, and,  while  he  awaited  Mrs.  Norwood's  reply  with 
hope,  he  yet  half  repented  of  his  proffered  suit,  lest  there 
should  have  been  too  much  of  the  leaven  of  mere  earthly 
tenderness  in  the  bosom  which  had  vowed  to  forsake  all  its 
idols.  This  letter  therefore  produced  a  terrible  revulsion  in 
his  feelings.  His  rigid  sense  of  duty,  and  his  adherence  to 
divine  rather  than  to  human  laws,  compelled  him  to  behold 
in  Eleanor  Norwood  only  the  wife  of  another.  Vile  and 
unworthy  as  Wallingford  might  be,  he  was  to  Allston's  view 
still  the  husband  ;  and  though  the  tie  might  be  loosened  by 
the  hand  of  man,  it  could  only  be  entirely  severed  by  the 
will  of  God.  All  the  sternness  of  that  long-practiced  asceti- 
cism which  had  given  Allston  such  a  twofold  character,  was 
called  forth  by  the  thought  of  the  sin  he  had  so  nearly  com- 
mitted.   The  wild  enthusiasm  of  his  nature  led  him  to  re- 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


229 


gard  Mrs.  Norwood  as  a  temptress  sent  to  try  the  strength 
of  his  self-denying  piety.  He  remembered  the  tale  of  the 
hermit,  who  for  forty  years  abode  in  the  wilderness,  sinless 
in  thought  and  in  deed,  while  he  kept  his  eye  ever  fixed 
upon  the  cross;  but  the  moment  of  wavering  came — the 
holy  eremite  turned  his  gaze  for  one  single  instant  from  the 
symbol,  and  Satan,  who  had  long  watched  in  vain,  obtained 
the  mastery  over  him  whose  life-long  piety  had  not  availed 
against  a  moment's  weakness.  Allston  shuddered  as  his 
busy  fancy  suggested  the  parallel  between  the  monkish  le- 
gend and  his  own  present  feelings.  The  thought  of  the 
disgrace  which  would  attend  him  who,  while  reproving  sin 
in  others,  could  be  accused  of  cherishing  it  in  his  own  house- 
hold— of  the  judgment  which  would  fall  upon  him  who 
should  dare  to  minister  to  the  people  in  holy  things,  while 
he  bore  the  marks  of  a  deadly  leprosy  within  his  own  bosom, 
until  at  length  the  spiritual  pride,  which  was  in  truth  his 
besetting  sin,  subdued  all  lighter  emotions. 

That  evening  Mrs.  Norwood  sat  in  her  quiet  room,  with 
the  light  of  a  shaded  lamp  falling  upon  the  gentle  beauty 
of  a  face  now  lighted  up  with  hope,  and  which,  but  for  the 
restless  and  hurried  glance  which  was  occasionally  turned 
upon  the  quaintly-fashioned  clock,  might  have  seemed  the 
picture  of  placid  happiness.  A  soft  glow  flushed  her  cheek, 
her  eyes  were  full  of  radiance,  and,  as  she  raised  her  head 
in  the  attitude  of  a  listener,  a  smile  of  almost  child-like  joy- 
ousness  parted  her  flexible  lips.  A  step  resounded  on  the 
gravel-walk  without.  Her  first  impulse  led  her  to  spring 
forward  to  welcome  the  expected  visitant,  but  womanly  pride 
checked  her  in  mid-career,  and  she  yet  stood  in  half  uncer- 
tainty, when  the  door  opened  to  admit  a  servant,  who  hand- 
ed her  a  small  parcel.  Her  cheek  grew  ashy  pale  as  she 
broke  the  seal.  A  paper  dropped  from  the  envelope — it  was 
her  own  letter  to  Allston  ;  and  she  sank  into  a  chair  as  she 
unfolded  the  note  which  accompanied  it.  Written  in  All- 
ston's  hand,  yet  so  blotted,  and  traced  in  such  irregular  char- 
acters, that  the  agitation  of  the  writer  might  well  be  divined, 
were  these  words: 


230 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


"I  will  not  express  the  agony  of  mind  with  which  I  have 
perused  the  enclosed  papers.  I  have  been  tried  almost  be- 
yond my  strength,  but  I  have  been  mercifully  spared  the 
commission  of  a  crime  at  which  my  soul  shudders.  I  will 
not  upbraid  you,  madam,  for  your  cruel  concealment ;  your 
own  conscience  will  be  your  accuser,  and  it  will  not  fail  to 
remind  you  that  your  deception  has  nearly  hurled  me  from 
an  eminence  which  it  has  been  the  labor  of  my  life  to  reach. 
But  you  have  been  only  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  a 
higher  Power.  I  fancied  myself  superior  to  temptation,  and 
God  has  sent  you  to  leach  me  the  necessity  of  closer  watch- 
fulness over  my  still  frail  nature.  Eleanor  Norwood,  I  have 
loved  you  as  I  never  loved  earthly  creature  before,  but  sooner 
wrould  I  suffer  the  keenest  pangs  of  that  chronic  heartbreak, 
to  which  the  martyrdom  of  the  pile  and  faggot  is  but  pas- 
time, than  take  to  my  arms  the  wife  of  a  living  husband. 
You  have  made  me  wretched,  but  you  cannot  make  me 
criminal.  Henceforth  we  meet  no  more  on  earth,  for  I  have 
vowed  to  tear  your  image  from  my  heart,  though  even  now 
every  fibre  bleeds  at  the  rude  sundering  of  such  close-knit 
ties.    Receive  my  forgiveness  and  my  farewell." 

When  Mrs.  Norwood's  faithful  old  servant  entered  the 
room,  about  an  hour  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  she  found 
her  mistress  lying  senseless  on  the  floor.  Suspecting  some- 
thing like  the  truth,  the  woman  prudently  gathered  up  the 
papers  from  view,  and  then  summoned  assistance.  Mrs.  Nor- 
wood was  carried  to  her  apartment,  and  medical  aid  was 
immediately  procured.  The  physician  pronounced  her  to  be 
suffering  from  strong  nervous  excitement;  and,  after  giving 
her  a  sleeping-draught,  prescribed  perfect  quiet  for  the  next 
few  days.  But  ere  morning  she  was  in  a  state  of  delirium, 
and  fears  were  entertained  for  her  intellect  if  not  for  her  life. 
Several  days  passed  in  great  uncertainty,  but  at  length  hope 
revived,  and  Mrs.  Norwood  once  more  awoke  to  conscious- 
ness. Feeble  as  an  infant,  however,  she  required  great  care 
to  raise  her  from  the  brink  of  the  grave  ;  and  the  springs  of 
life,  so  sadly  shattered  by  long-continued  sorrow,  were  now 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


231 


in  danger  of  being  broken  by  a  single  stroke.  Disease  seem- 
ed undetermined  in  its  final  attack,  and  at  length  assumed 
the  form  under  which  it  most  frequently  assists  the  insidious 
labors  of  secret  sorrow.  A  hectic  cough  now  racked  her 
feeble  frame,  and  it  was  evident  that  consumption  would 
soon  claim  another  victim.  Just  at  this  time,  a  letter,  sealed 
with  black,  was  forwarded  to  Mrs.  Norwood's  address ;  and, 
after  being  withheld  from  her  several  weeks,  by  advice  of 
her  physician,  was  finally  given  to  her,  because  all  hope  of 
prolonging  her  life  was  at  an  end.  The  perusal  of  this  letter 
seemed  rather  to  soothe  than  to  excite  the  sinking  invalid. 
"It  comes  too  late,"  was  her  only  exclamation  as  she  de- 
posited it  in  a  little  cabinet  which  stood  beside  her  bed — and 
from  that  moment  she  made  no  allusion  to  its  contents. 

It  was  remarked  in  the  village,  that  Mr.  Allston  had  be- 
come excessively  severe  in  his  denunciations  of  error,  while 
his  habits  had  become  more  rigid  and  reserved  than  ever. 
His  former  persuasive  eloquence  had  given  place  to  violent 
and  bitter  revilings  of  sin,  while  those  who  applied  to  him 
for  religious  consolation  were  terrified  rather  than  attracted 
by  the  threatenings  of  the  fiery  zealot.  Once  only  did  he 
seem  moved  by  gentler  feelings.  An  aged  clergyman,  who 
occasionally  visited  him  from  a  distant  town,  was  summoned 
to  the  bedside  of  Mrs.  Norwood  ;  and,  when  he  returned  to 
Mr.  Allston's  study,  he  feelingly  described  the  bodily  pangs 
and  angelic  patience  of  the  gentle  sufferer.  The  frame  of 
the  stern  man  shook  as  he  listened,  and  tears — such  tears 
as  sear  rather  than  elevate  the  heart— fell  from  his  eyes.  It 
was  one  of  the  last  struggles  of  human  feeling  in  the  breast, 
of  one  who  vainly  fancied  himself  marked  out  for  a  higher 
than  human  destiny  ;  one  more  was  yet  to  come,  and  then 
earth  held  no  claim  upon  his  heart. 

It  was  not  long  delayed,  for  the  time  soon  arrived  when 
the  bell  tolled  for  her  whose  sorrowful  life  and  early  death 
had  been  the  penalty  of  a  single  error.  Allston  stood  beside 
the  coffin,  and  saw  within  its  deep  shadow  the  pale  and  stony 
features  of  the  being  whom  he  had  loved  ;  and  even  while 
his  heart  smote  him  as  the  shortener  of  her  brief  and  melan- 


232 


ELEANOR  NORWOOD. 


choiy  span  of  life,  he  yet  nerved  himself  with  the  high,  stem 
resolve  of  one  who  suffers  in  the  cause  of  duty.  With  that 
cold  brow  beneath  his  gaze,  he  poured  forth,  from  the  depths 
of  an  agonized  heart,  a  prayer  whose  solemn  eloquence 
thrilled  every  listener  like  a  voice  from  the  grave.  No  sound 
escaped  his  lips  as  the  clods  of  the  valley  fell  rattling  on  the 
coffin-lid  which  shrouded  the  heart  so  sorely  tried  in  life; 
but.  in  the  deep  midnight,  groans  and  bitter  cries,  which 
rived  his  stern  bosom,  were  heard  issuing  from  the  pastor's 
lonely  closet. 

Mrs.  Norwood's  old  servant  inherited  the  property  in  Elms- 
dale  ;  and  one  of  her  first  duties  was  to  place  in  Mr.  Allston's 
hands  the  cabinet  which  she  said  her  mistress  had  requested 
might  be  given  him  after  her  death.  It  contained  only  Mrs. 
Norwood's  letter  and  her  lover's  reply,  together  with  a  third, 
in  an  unknown  hand,  bearing  a  black  seal.  This  last  was 
dated  some  months  earlier  than  the  others,  and  contained 
the  tidings  of  Mr.  Wallingford's  death  !  He  had  fallen  a  vic- 
tim to  his  own  misdeeds  in  Italy  ;  and  at  the  moment  when 
Allston  had  considered  himself  the  subject  of  a  temptation 
intended  to  try  his  strength,  the  divorced  wife  was  in  reality 
free  from  every  shadow  of  a  tie. 

Why  had  she  not  disclosed  these  tidings  to  her  scrupulous 
lover?  Ask,  rather,  why  she  who  had  twice  suffered  from 
man's  wayward  nature,  and  who  had  escaped  from  the  vices 
of  one  only  to  perish  by  the  too  rigid  virtues  of  another, 
should  place  trust  in  any  earthly  affection  ?  Sick  of  life, 
hopeless  of  future  peace,  sinking  under  a  fatal  disease,  she 
had  taken  a  lesson  from  the  inferior  creation  : 

"  Mute 

The  camel  labors  with  the  heaviest  load, 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence." 


We  conquer  difficulties  by  daring  to  attempt  them,  and 
our  cowardice  makes  most  of  the  impossibilities  we  fear. 


TBanmater 


J]    QJ     ®     D     IT     ffil  a 


Motljcrs  anb  SDangljters  of  tlje  Bible. 


JUDITH. 

BY     THE  EDITOR. 


For  two  hundred  and  forty  years  has  the  kingdom  of 
Judah  been  tottering  to  its  fall  since  the  infatuated  son  of 
Johosaphat  wedded  the  daughter  of  Jezebel,  and  thus  accele- 
rated the  downfall  of  Sion's  glory  ;  commencing  indeed  wrhen 
the  son  of  Bathsheba  reared  altars  to  the  Gods  of  his  alien 
wives  in  Jerusalem,  while  centuries  must  pass  ere  the  Divine 
Mercy  grow  weary  and  give  over  the  people  of  his  choice 
to  captivity  and  chains.  Vain  has  been  proved  the  expur- 
gating sword  of  Nimshi's  son,  or  the  guards  of  the  temple, 
when  Ahaziah  and  his  detested  mother  fell ;  vain  the  pious 
and  paternal  care  of  Jehoiada,  as  Pontiff,  over  the  youthful 
grandson  of  Athaliah  ;  vain  also  has  proved  the  righteous 
rule  of  Amaziah  and  his  son  ;  vain  also  the  piety  of  Heze- 
kiah,  for  whose  sake  the  stars  have  once  rolled  backward 
in  heaven,  and  avenging  angels  have  arrayed  themselves  in 
the  simoon's  blast  to  destroy  the  presumptuous  armory  of 
Sennacherib.  Manasseh  has  caused  the  idols  of  heathen 
superstition  to  stand  again  even  in  the  temple  itself,  and  the 
streets  of  the  holy  city  have  run  down  with  the  blood  of 
saints  and  prophets  through  twenty  years.  The  princely  son 
of  Amoz  they  have  sawed  asunder  with  a  saw  of  wood  ;  and 
there  has  been  nothing  but  violence,  outrage,  pollution,  and 
murder,  where  of  old  time  gathered  the  myriads  of  Israel 
to  their  solemn  feasts,  and  rejoiced  in  peace  and  plenty  before 
the  God  of  their  covenant  in  his  temple.  At  length  the 
Assyrians  receive  permission  to  scourge  once  more  the  son? 


234 


JUDITH. 


of  Abraham,  and  the  holy  city  is  given  up  to  pillage  and 
slaughter  from  her  foes.  The  royal  debauchee  that  has 
renewed  the  murderous  frenzy  of  the  house  of  Ahab  against 
the  saints,  has  also  fallen  into  a  miserable  captivity,  and  at 
length  returned,  upon  his  repentance,  to  amend  his  wrongs 
and  purify  the  holy  places  from  all  the  abominations  of  his 
idols.  But  his  heathenish  son  again  overturns  his  reforms, 
and  renews  the  corruptions  of  Gods  worse  than  they  that 
received  homage  in  Gomorrah  and  Zeboim.  Then  his  two 
years  of  misrule  end  in  assassination  ;  and  the  minority  of 
his  pious  son  leaves  the  kingdom  enfeebled,  to  be  the  prey 
alike  of  domestic  factions  and  external  violence,  while  no 
strong  hand  is  stretched  out  over  the  land  to  compel  obe- 
dience to  the  laws,  and  affray  afar  off  the  insolence  of  foreign 
powers. 

It  is  in  such  a  time  as  this  that  the  tyrannies  of  the  earth 
earn  eternal  renown  by  subduing  nations  rendered  cowardly 
by  vice.  And  now  one  more  of  those  purple  absurdities  that 
men  name  heroes  comes  to  signalize  his  valor  by  warring 
upon  the  distracted  state  of  Judah  with  all  the  forces  of  the 
east.  He  has  made  war  upon  Lydian  Phraortes,  lately  ren- 
dered famous  for  the  magnificence  of  his  defences  in  Ecba- 
tana ;  and,  with  the  usual  pride  of  eastern  kings,  sent  requi- 
sitions for  help  over  the  whole  world,  that  all  men  may  know 
how  great  is  "  the  great  king,  the  king  of  Assyria."  Treated 
on  all  hands  with  contempt,  he  resolves  upon  revenge ;  and 
no  sooner  has  the  Lydian  fallen  by  doom  of  battle  on  the 
plains  of  Ragau,  than  he  sends  infinite  hosts  under  his  inso- 
lent leader  Holofernes  to  depopulate  all  lands,  and  earn  him 
a  name  among  the  chief  pests  that  have  ever  laid  waste  the 
earth  with  fire  and  sword. 

It  is  a  time  of  anarchy  and  misrule  in  Judah,  and  the 
people  of  each  city  are  left  as  best  they  may  to  provide  them- 
selves with  defences  against  overwhelming  force.  The  enemy 
must  first  pass  through  the  hill-country  by  Jordan  before  he 
can  lay  waste  the  west  and  the  south  from  Tyre  to  Gaza, 
or  hope  to  lay  his  hand  upon  the  treasures  of  Egypt  in  Pe- 
lusium  or  Memphis,  and  render  once  more  tributary  the  race 


jur.  ITFT. 


235 


of  Mesraim  to  the  children  of  the  east.  But  the  strength  of 
Judah  lies  not  in  numbers,  but  in  the  care  of  God,  who  can 
make  ''one  to  chase  a  thousand,  and  two  put  ten  thousand 
to  flight."  With  the  bravery  of  a  Palafox  at  Saragossa, 
a  Tell  in  Switzerland,  or  a  Renaud  among  the  Waldenses 
by  the  springs  of  the  Po,  when  they  will  repel  with  a  handful 
the  mightiest  of  the  earth,  or  find  honorable  graves  around 
the  altars  of  their  fathers,  the  scattered  people  fly  to  arms 
against  the  myriads  of  Assyrian  invaders.  The  narrow  and 
dangerous  passes  are  secured,  and  the  enemy  must  cut  his 
way  through  mountains,  or  retire.  But  the  Assyrians  are 
not  used  to  retreat,  and  they  lay  seige  to  the  nearest  towns ; 
not  doubting  they  can  force  them,  through  famine,  to  sur- 
render, and  thus  open  their  way  to  the  wealthy  tracts  be- 
yond. The  hill-fortress  of  Bethulia  becomes  invested,  and 
their  supply  of  water  is  cut  ofT.  Exposed  to  the  extremities 
of  hunger  and  thirst,  the  inhabitants  see  nothing  before  them 
but  submission  or  certain  death.  In  the  midst  of  their  per- 
plexity, however,  the  noble  daughter  of  Merari  appears,  like 
another  Maid  of  Orleans,  to  find  means  whereby  the  foe 
may  be  humbled  and  the  people  delivered  from  their  fears. 

Proposing  to  accomplish  by  artifice  what  is  impracticable 
to  force,  she  receives  the  blessing  of  her  townsmen  ;  and, 
with  a  single  attendant,  this  daughter  of  Israel  proves  herself 
no  less  brave  in  her  weakness  than  the  mightiest  heroes  of 
David  in  their  strength.  It  is  but  a  little  way,  and  she 
comes  to  the  city  gates,  where  she  may  pause  to  reflect  on 
the  hazards  of  her  undertaking.  Over  hill  and  valley,  far 
as  the  eye  can  reach,  lies  outspread  the  host  of  the  invader, 
in  multitude  more  dense  and  various  of  color,  dress,  and  arms, 
than  that  when  the  invincible  Sesonchis  led  against  the  son 
of  Solomon  his  infinite  hosts  of  Egyptians  and  Ethiopians, 
with  their  allies  the  Lubim  and  Sukkim  from  the  springs  of 
Nile  and  the  coasts  of  the  Red  Sea.  With  early  dawn  the 
blameless  sacrifice  smokes  in  Sion ;  and  at  early  dawn  go 
forth  the  devoted  pair,  the  mistress  and  her  maid,  that  have 
vowed  to  find  deliverance  for  their  city  in  the  slaughter  of 
ner  foe.  or  perish  themselves  in  the  attempt. 


236  JUDITH. 

Three  days  she  passes  in  the  camp  of  her  foe.  The  luxu- 
rious and  effeminate  commander  is  smitten  with  her  fair 
looks,  and  presses  her  to  name  the  day  when  he  may  add 
her  to  the  fair  multitude  of  his  former  wives,  and  thus  place 
her  at  the  head  of  his  princely  harem,  where  the  dark-eyed 
girls  of  Circassia  and  Media  and  Persia  and  Assyria  and  the 
whole  east  are  blazing  in  silk  and  purple  and  fine  linen,  in 
gold  and  diamonds  and  pearls  and  precious  gems,  and  all 
shall  envy  the  new  comer  her  superior  charms.  Scrupulous 
in  the  observance  of  laws  old  almost  as  the  world,  she  goes 
forth  each  day  at  will  from  the  camp  to  perform  her  ablu- 
tions, and  carries  her  own  consecrated  food  by  herself,  because 
she  is  forbidden  to  eat  with  a  Gentile  what  is  to  him  a  feast 
upon  a  sacrifice  to  idols.  Having  thus  established  free  in- 
gress and  egress,  and  secured  their  final  exit  from  all  ques- 
tion of  watchful  sentries  along  their  accustomed  way,  she 
fixes  the  time  when  she  will  become  the  Pearl  of  the  Harem 
to  the  chief  captain  of  the  Assyrian  army.  Overjoyed  at  her 
consent,  he  gives  himself  up  to  excess  of  wine  ;  and,  when 
the  shades  of  the  fouith  evening  come  over  the  earth,  lies 
down  upon  his  couch  of  purple,  too  satiated  with  the  deceit- 
ful draught  of  his  cups  to  enjoy  his  imaginary  triumph,  or 
once  to  suspect  that  his  new  flame  may  play  the  game  of 
Jael  to  Sisera,  and  leave  him  a  headless  trunk  to  bleed  upon 
the  ground. 

The  attendants  are  all  retired.  Even  Bagoas,  the  favorite 
minister  to  his  master's  pleasures,  has  gone  forth,  pleased 
that  the  fair  stranger  is  closeted  with  his  Most  Serene  High- 
ness  Holofernes,  chief  butcher  of  the  world — that  knows  no 
God  but  Baal,  and  no  king  but  him  who  bears  the  mark  of 
queenly  Nebo,  and  is  called  her  Nazarite.  Now  is  the  hour 
to  strike  for  her  laws  and  native  land.  Her  beastly  lover 
lies  stupified  beneath  a  canopy  of  purple  flashing  with  gems 
and  gold  in  the  taper's  uncertain  light.  They  are  alone. 
Only  her  maid  is  near  at  her  call,  and  none  others  dare 
approach.  It  is  but  a  blow,  and  all  is  over.  With  steady 
hand  she  draws  the  glittering  sabre  from  its  sheath,  and 
prays — "Strengthen  me,  O  Jehovah,  for  the  appointed  ven- 


JUDITH. 


237 


geance  !"    At  a  single  blow  she  severs  his  grisly  head  from 
the  neck,  and  Holofernes  dies  almost  without  a  struggle, 

She  has  all  night  to  retire  with  her  prize.  She  has  only 
to  conceal  the  head  in  her  sack  of  food,  and  gather  some 
few  trophies  besides  of  her  prowess  in  the  camp  of  the  aliens. 
Her  faithful  maid  will  bear  the  whole  away  before  her,  and 
site  may  go  forth  again  to  her  ablutions  without  question 
from  any,  and  come  at  her  leisure  to  the  city  gates,  where 
her  anxious  friends  await  her  return,  half  in  fear,  half  in 
hope.  With  early  morning  a  shout  raises  like  that  upon  the 
shore  of  (he  Red  Sea,  from  the  ransomed  people  that  have 
escaped,  and  are  now  safe  in  the  death  of  their  foe,  whose 
head  now  shall  adorn,  as  a  trophy,  their  city  gates ;  but  in 
the  camp  of  the  foes  all  is  wailing  and  dismay  and  panic 
fear,  when  they  find  their  chief  headless  in  his  tent,  the  wo- 
men gone,  and  the  whole  surface  of  the  heights  above  them 
and  the  city  walls  bristling  with  arms.  Each  tree  and  shrub  , 
seems  a  hero  in  complete  steel ;  each  crag  and  cliff  grows 
to  a  phalanx  or  a  battalion  ;  and  the  whole  air  burns  above 
them  as  in  Samarian  fields,  with  the  sight  of  flaming  chariots 
and  steeds  and  heroes,  whose  shields  are  like  the  sun  and 
their  spears  and  swords  are  like  lightnings.  Thunder,  ye 
cherubim  above  them,  and  scatter  down  upon  the  foe,  as  in 
the  day  of  Gibeon,  hailstones  and  coals  of  fire,  and  hot  thun- 
derbolts !  "Awake,  awake,  put  on  strength,  O  arm  of  Je- 
hovah !  Awake,  as  in  the  ancient  days,  in  the  generations 
of  old  !  Art  thou  not  it  that  hath  cut  Rahab  and  wounded 
the  Dragon?  Art  thou  not  it  which  hath  dried  the  sea,  the 
waters  of  the  great  deep;  that  hath  made  the  depths  of  the 
sea  a  way  for  the  ransomed  to  pass  over?  Therefore  the 
redeemed  of  Jehovah  shall  return  and  come  with  singing 
unto  Sion  ;  and  everlasting  joy  shall  be  upon  their  heads; 
they  shall  obtain  gladness  and  joy ;  and  sorrow  and  mourn- 
ing shall  flee  away." 

Such  is  the  song  of  the  disenthralled  as  they  stand  by  their 
city  gates  and  behold  melt  away  the  multitudes  of  their  foes 
like  clouds  before  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Headlong  on  all 
sides  the  Assyrians  flee,  and  every  man's  sword  is  turned 


238 


LINES  FOR  LIZZY'S  ALBUM. 


against  his  fellow.  The  hawks  of  heaven  rejoice,  and  feed 
themselves  fat  with  the  flesh  of  heroes,  and  the  wild  beasts 
of  the  desert  keep  Carnival  with  them  for  a  whole  month, 
till  not  the  smell  of  an  Assyrian  is  left  over  the  whole  land, 
now  whitened  with  the  bones  of  heroes  and  their  steeds, 
inextricably  mingled  in  one  vast  burial. 

Thus  triumphs  the  widow  of  Manasses,  over  the  fall  of 
her  country's  foes.  Then  tuning  anew  her  long-neglected 
harp,  she  sings  a  victorious  hymn  like  Miriam  or  Deborah, 
to  celebrate  the  Divine  power  and  providence  shewn  over 
Israel,  and  sits  honored  as  a  mother  to  her  country  through 
coming  times ;  not,  like  a  Thalestris,  a  Penthesilea,  or  a 
Semiramis,  by  making  war  upon  foreign  states,  but  like  a 
Jael  or  a  Boadicea,  by  working  deliverance  at  home  from 
the  oppressions  of  alien  powers,  and  destroying  the  destroyers 
of  the  earth. 


LINES  FOR  LIZZY'S  ALBUM. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


O  rosy-bosom'd  Hours, 
That  sit  beyond  the  sphery  chime 

To  watch  o'er  men  and  spirits,  and  ope  the  doors 
Whence  the  sun  goes  forth  to  climb 

The  steep  of  heaven  supreme,  and  pours 
His  living  light  o'er  lands. 
Here  come,  O  loose-robed  of  all  dyes, 

That  Jris  loves,  and  where  a  sylph  commands, 
Bear  all  of  sweet-enamell'd  eyes 
The  Graces  tend  of  snowy  hands 

In  gardens  and  in  fields 
Where  the  red  star  looks  kindly  down, 

And  the  green  lands  all  smiling  florets  yield 
Of  wings  fann'd  o'er;  wherewith  they  crown 
The  brow  of  beauty,  and  love  hath  seal'd 

His  own  thro'  changing  years. 
And  last,  when  bound  with  Asphodel, 

A  pious  race  shall  stand  about  our  biers, 
Then  crown  us  by  Life's  crystal  well, 
With  amaranth  dissolved  from  fears. 


THE    ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


BY  J.  K-  PAULDING. 


It  is  a  mistaken  idea  that  the  guilty  ever  escape  punish- 
ment in  this  world.  They  are  punished  here  as  well  as 
hereafter.  The  outward  gilding  of  wealth  and  prosperity 
may  impose  on  the  rest  of  mankind,  but  in  the  dark  closet 
which  every  man  carries  within  his  bosom,  the  spectres  of 
remorse  and  fear  work  in  the  silence  of  night  like  sheeted 
ghosts,  unseen  except  by  Him  to  whom  their  special  mission 
is  directed— shrieking  in  the  ear,  and  pointing  the  skinny 
finger  of  scorn  or  denunciation.  The  guilty  live  in  perpetual 
fear — and  a  life  of  fear  is  a  life  of  misery.  What  though 
their  crime  had  no  witness  but  the  eye  of  Omnipotence, 
which  penetrates  the  inscrutable  obscurity  of  midnight  dark- 
ness— what  though  years  of  impunity  may  have  stilled  the 
voice  of  conscience,  blunted  the  sting  of  remorse,  and  ren- 
dered detection  every  day  more  improbable — still  there  exists 
One  who  knows  it  all,  and  that  One  is  omnipotent.  He  can 
at  any  time  draw  the  secret  crime  from  the  bottom  of  the 
deep,  and.  when  least  expected,  unfold  the  dark  mystery  that 
,  has  so  long  been  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  men.  There  is  a 
dread*  consciousness  of  this  power  haunting  the  imagination 
of  guilt  and  preying  on  its  vitals.  To  the  eye  of  the  world 
it  may  seem  prosperous  and  happy.  It  may  acquire  wealth 
and  honors ;  it  may  be  possessed  of  the  very  fullness  of  out- 
ward prosperity ;  but  there  is  a  worm  in  the  bud — a  disease 
of  the  heart  lurking  unseen  by  mortal  eyes,  unknown  and 
unsuspected  except  by  the  guilty  wretch  and  Him  who  sees 
and  knows  all  things.  In  this  world  we  see  nothing  but  the 
outside  ;  we  cannot  unfold  the  secrets  of  the  hearts  of  others, 


240 


THE  ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


and  enter  into  those  dread  mysteries  which  baffle  human 
investigation.  Hence  it  is  that  we  are  beyond  doubt  per- 
petually making  erroneous  estimates  of  human  enjoyment, 
and  not  unfrequently  becoming  guilty  of  the  presumption 
of  questioning  the  justice  of  Heaven  for  having  apparently 
made  such  a  strange,  unequal  distribution  of  happiness  in 
this  world.  Nothing  but  the  recognition  of  a  future  state  of 
reward  and  punishment,  it  would  seem,  could  have  possibly 
reconciled  the  superficial  view  we  have  of  those  secrets  with 
the  attributes  of  the  Supreme  Being.  The  following  tale, 
founded  on  fact,  will  illustrate  this  brief  introduction  : — 

More  than  forty  years  ago,  a  traveler  journeying  in  haste, 
and  on  an  occasion  of  great  interest,  found  himself  one  sum- 
mer evening — himself  and  his  horse  equally  weary — coursing 
slowly  along  the  bank  of  a  river  by  a  road  equally  solitary 
and  wild.  On  the  side  he  traveled,  the  country  was  rough, 
rocky,  and  barren,  without  a  habitation  for  many  miles; 
while  the  opposite  shore  exhibited  a  succession  of  cultivated 
fields,  beautifully  variegated  with  waving  woods  and  farm- 
houses, almost  aspiring  to  the  dignity  of  gentlemen's  seats. 
One  at  a  distance  especially  caught  his  attention,  as  exhibit- 
ing evidences  of  superior  taste,  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
grounds  and  the  architecture  of  the  building,  which  was 
much  more  expensive  than  any  other  within  sight. 

The  night  came  on  apace,  and  with  it  increasing  dark- 
ness, caused  by  a  vast  mass  of  gathering  clouds  that  ever 
and  anon  were  lighted  up  by  flashes  of  lightning  too  distant 
to  illuminate  the  obscurity  of  his  way.  As  he  proceeded  on 
slowly  and  wearily,  the  thunder,  muttering  afar  off  in  whis- 
pered murmurings,  foreboded  a  coming  storm,  and  the  traveler 
pricked  his  worn-out  steed  to  a  quicker  motion  in  vain,  for 
he  was  quite  tired  out.  By-and-bye,  a  black,  condensed 
cloud,  with  ragged  edges,  suddenly  appeared  above  the  high 
hills  that  ranged  along  the  river,  about  two  miles  from  its 
banks,  chequered  at  almost  every  moment  by  zig-zag  light- 
ning that  leaped  athwart  its  gloomy  face;  and  that  freezing 
pause  of  nature  which  so  frequently  immediately  precedes 
the  tempest  and  the  rain,  announced  its  speedy  coming. 


fflotijtvs  ani  Wau%\)kxs  of  %  Bible. 


JUDITH. 

BY     THE  EDITOR. 


For  two  hundred  and  forty  years  has  the  kingdom  of 
Judah  been  tottering  to  its  fall  since  the  infatuated  son  of 
Johosaphat  wedded  the  daughter  of  Jezebel,  and  thus  accele- 
rated the  downfall  of  Sion's  glory  ;  commencing  indeed  when 
the  son  of  Bathsheba  reared  altars  to  the  Gods  of  his  alien 
wives  in  Jerusalem,  while  centuries  must  pass  ere  the  Divine 
Mercy  grow  weary  and  give  over  the  people  of  his  choice 
to  captivity  and  chains.  Yain  has  been  proved  the  expur- 
gating sword  of  Nimshi's  son,  or  the  guards  of  the  temple, 
when  Ahaziah  and  his  detested  mother  fell ;  vain  the  pious 
and  paternal  care  of  Jehoiada,  as  Pontiff,  over  the  youthful 
grandson  of  Athaliah ;  vain  also  has  proved  the  righteous 
rule  of  Amaziah  and  his  son ;  vain  also  the  piety  of  Heze- 
kiah,  for  whose  sake  the  stars  have  once  rolled  backward 
in  heaven,  and  avenging  angels  have  arrayed  themselves  in 
the  simoon's  blast  to  destroy  the  presumptuous  armory  of 
Sennacherib.  Manasseh  has  caused  the  idols  of  heathen 
superstition  to  stand  again  even  in  the  temple  itself,  and  the 
streets  of  the  holy  city  have  run  down  with  the  blood  of 
saints  and  prophets  through  twenty  years.  The  princely  son 
of  Amoz  they  have  sawed  asunder  with  a  saw  of  wood  ;  and 
there  has  been  nothing  but  violence,  outrage,  pollution,  and 
murder,  where  of  old  time  gathered  the  myriads  of  Israel 
to  their  solemn  feasts,  and  rejoiced  in  peace  and  plenty  before 
the  God  of  their  covenant  in  his  temple.  At  length  the 
Assyrians  receive  permission  to  scourge  once  more  the  sons 


234  JUDITH. 

of  Abraham,  and  the  holy  city  is  given  up  to  pillage  and 
slaughter  from  her  foes.  The  royal  debauchee  that  has 
renewed  the  murderous  frenzy  of  the  house  of  Ahab  against 
the  saints,  has  also  fallen  into  a  miserable  captivity,  and  at 
length  returned,  upon  his  repentance,  to  amend  his  wrongs 
and  purify  the  holy  places  from  all  the  abominations  of  his 
idols.  But  his  heathenish  son  again  overturns  his  reforms, 
and  renews  the  corruptions  of  Gods  worse  than  they  that 
received  homage  in  Gomorrah  and  Zeboim.  Then  his  two 
years  of  misrule  end  in  assassination  ;  and  the  minority  of 
his  pious  son  leaves  the  kingdom  enfeebled,  to  be  the  prey 
alike  of  domestic  factions  and  external  violence,  while  no 
strong  hand  is  stretched  out  over  the  land  to  compel  obe- 
dience to  the  laws,  and  affray  afar  off  the  insolence  of  foreign 
powers. 

It  is  in  such  a  time  as  this  that  the  tyrannies  of  the  earth 
earn  eternal  renown  by  subduing  nations  rendered  cowardly 
by  vice.  And  now  one  more  of  those  purple  absurdities  that 
men  name  heroes  comes  to  signalize  his  valor  by  warring 
upon  the  distracted  state  of  Judah  with  all  the  forces  of  the 
east.  He  has  made  war  upon  Lydian  Phraortes,  lately  ren- 
dered famous  for  the  magnificence  of  his  defences  in  Ecba- 
tana ;  and,  with  the  usual  pride  of  eastern  kings,  sent  requi- 
sitions for  help  over  the  whole  world,  that  all  men  may  know 
how  great  is  "  the  great  king,  the  king  of  Assyria."  Treated 
on  all  hands  with  contempt,  he  resolves  upon  revenge ;  and 
no  sooner  has  the  Lydian  fallen  by  doom  of  battle  on  the 
plains  of  Ragau,  than  he  sends  infinite  hosts  under  his  inso- 
lent leader  Holofernes  to  depopulate  all  lands,  and  earn  him 
a  name  among  the  chief  pests  that  have  ever  laid  waste  the 
earth  with  fire  and  sword. 

It  is  a  time  of  anarchy  and  misrule  in  Judah,  and  the 
people  of  each  city  are  left  as  best  they  may  to  provide  them- 
selves with  defences  against  overwhelming  force.  The  enemy 
must  first  pass  through  the  hill-country  by  Jordan  before  he 
can  lay  waste  the  west  and  the  south  from  Tyre  to  Gaza, 
or  hope  to  lay  his  hand  upon  the  treasures  of  Egypt  in  Pe- 
lusium  or  Memphis,  and  render  once  more  tributary  the  race 


JUDITR.  235 

of  Mesraim  to  the  children  of  the  east.  But  the  strength  of 
Judah  lies  not  in  numbers,  but  in  the  care  of  God,  who  can 
make  "one  to  chase  a  thousand,  and  two  put  ten  thousand 
to  flight."  With  the  bravery  of  a  Palafox  at  Saragossa, 
a  Tell  in  Switzerland,  or  a  Renaud  among  the  Waldenses 
by  the  springs  of  the  Po,  when  they  will  repel  with  a  handful 
the  mightiest  of  the  earth,  or  find  honorable  graves  around 
the  altars  of  their  fathers,  the  scattered  people  fly  to  arms 
against  the  myriads  of  Assyrian  invaders.  The  narrow  and 
dangerous  passes  are  secured,  and  the  enemy  must  cut  his 
way  through  mountains,  or  retire.  But  the  Assyrians  are 
not  used  to  retreat,  and  they  lay  seige  to  the  nearest  towns ; 
not  doubting  they  can  force  them,  through  famine,  to  sur- 
render, and  thus  open  their  way  to  the  wealthy  tracts  be- 
yond. The  hill-fortress  of  Bethulia  becomes  invested,  and 
their  supply  of  water  is  cut  off.  Exposed  to  the  extremities 
of  hunger  and  thirst,  the  inhabitants  see  nothing  before  them 
but  submission  or  certain  death.  In  the  midst  of  their  per- 
plexity, however,  the  noble  daughter  of  Merari  appears,  like 
another  Maid  of  Orleans,  to  find  means  whereby  the  foe 
may  be  humbled  and  the  people  delivered  from  their  fears. 

Proposing  to  accomplish  by  artifice  what  is  impracticable 
to  force,  she  receives  the  blessing  of  her  townsmen  ;  and, 
with  a  single  attendant,  this  daughter  of  Israel  proves  herself 
no  less  brave  in  her  weakness  than  the  mightiest  heroes  of 
David  in  their  strength.  It  is  but  a  little  way,  and  she 
comes  to  the  city  gates,  where  she  may  pause  to  reflect  on 
the  hazards  of  her  undertaking.  Over  hill  and  valley,  far 
as  the  eye  can  reach,  lies  outspread  the  host  of  the  invader, 
in  multitude  more  dense  and  various  of  color,  dress,  and  arms, 
than  that  when  the  invincible  Sesonchis  led  against  the  son 
of  Solomon  his  infinite  hosts  of  Egyptians  and  Ethiopians, 
with  their  allies  the  Lubim  and  Sukkim  from  the  springs  of 
Nile  and  the  coasts  of  the  Red  Sea.  With  early  dawn  the 
blameless  sacrifice  smokes  in  Sion ;  and  at  early  dawn  go 
forth  the  devoted  pair,  the  mistress  and  her  maid,  that  have 
vowed  to  find  deliverance  for  their  city  in  the  slaughter  of 
her  foe,  or  perish  themselves  in  the  attempt. 


236 


JUDITH. 


Three  days  she  passes  in  the  camp  of  her  foe.  The  luxu- 
rious and  effeminate  commander  is  smitten  with  her  fair 
looks,  and  presses  her  to  name  the  day  when  he  may  add 
her  to  the  fair  multitude  of  his  former  wives,  and  thus  place 
her  at  the  head  of  his  princely  harem,  where  the  dark-eyed 
girls  of  Circassia  and  Media  and  Persia  and  Assyria  and  the 
whole  east  are  blazing  in  silk  and  purple  and  fine  linen,  in 
gold  and  diamonds  and  pearls  and  precious  gems,  and  all 
shall  envy  the  new  comer  her  superior  charms.  Scrupulous 
in  the  observance  of  laws  old  almost  as  the  world,  she  goes 
forth  each  day  at  will  from  the  camp  to  perform  her  ablu- 
tions, and  carries  her  own  consecrated  food  by  herself,  because 
she  is  forbidden  to  eat  with  a  Gentile  what  is  to  him  a  feast 
upon  a  sacrifice  to  idols.  Having  thus  established  free  in- 
gress and  egress,  and  secured  their  final  exit  from  all  ques- 
tion of  watchful  sentries  along  their  accustomed  way,  she 
fixes  the  time  when  she  will  become  the  Pearl  of  the  Harem 
to  the  chief  captain  of  the  Assyrian  army.  Overjoyed  at  her 
consent,  he  gives  himself  up  to  excess  of  wine  ;  and,  when 
the  shades  of  the  fouith  evening  come  over  the  earth,  lies 
down  upon  his  couch  of  purple,  too  satiated  with  the  deceit- 
ful draught  of  his  cups  to  enjoy  his  imaginary  triumph,  or 
once  to  suspect  that  his  new  flame  may  play  the  game  of 
Jael  to  Sisera,  and  leave  him  a  headless  trunk  to  bleed  upon 
the  ground. 

The  attendants  are  all  retired.  Even  Bagoas,  the  favorite 
minister  to  his  master's  pleasures,  has  gone  forth,  pleased 
that  the  fair  stranger  is  closeted  with  his  Most  Serene  High- 
ness Holofernes,  chief  butcher  of  the  world — that  knows  no 
God  but  Baal,  and  no  king  but  him  who  bears  the  mark  of 
queenly  Nebo,  and  is  called  her  Nazarite.  Now  is  the  hour 
to  strike  for  her  laws  and  native  land.  Her  beastly  lover 
lies  stupified  beneath  a  canopy  of  purple  flashing  with  gems 
and  gold  in  the  taper's  uncertain  light.  They  are  alone. 
Only  her  maid  is  near  at  her  call,  and  none  others  dare 
approach.  It  is  but  a  blow,  and  all  is  over.  With  steady 
hand  she  draws  the  glittering  sabre  from  its  sheath,  and 
prays — "  Strengthen  me,  O  Jehovah,  for  the  appointed  ven- 


JUDITH. 


237 


geance  !"  At  a  single  blow  she  severs  his  grisly  head  from 
the  neck,  and  Holofernes  dies  almost  without  a  struggle. 

She  has  all  night  to  retire  with  her  prize.  She  has  only 
to  conceal  the  head  in  her  sack  of  food,  and  gather  some 
few  trophies  besides  of  her  prowess  in  the  camp  of  the  aliens. 
Her  faithful  maid  will  bear  the  whole  away  before  her,  and 
she  may  go  forth  again  to  her  ablutions  without  question 
from  any,  and  come  at  her  leisure  to  the  city  gates,  where 
her  anxious  friends  await  her  return,  half  in  fear,  half  in 
hope.  With  early  morning  a  shout  raises  like  that  upon  the 
shore  of  the  Red  Sea,  from  the  ransomed  people  that  have 
escaped,  and  are  now  safe  in  the  death  of  their  foe,  whose 
head  now  shall  adorn,  as  a  trophy,  their  city  gates ;  but  in 
the  camp  of  the  foes  all  is  wailing  and  dismay  and  panic 
fear,  when  they  find  their  chief  headless  in  his  tent,  the  wo- 
men gone,  and  the  whole  surface  of  the  heights  above  them 
and  the  city  walls  bristling  with  arms.  Each  tree  and  shrub 
seems  a  hero  in  complete  steel ;  each  crag  and  cliff  grows 
to  a  phalanx  or  a  battalion  ;  and  the  whole  air  burns  above 
them  as  in  Samarian  fields,  with  the  sight  of  flaming  chariots 
and  steeds  and  heroes,  whose  shields  are  like  the  sun  and 
their  spears  and  swords  are  like  lightnings.  Thunder,  ye 
cherubim  above  them,  and  scatter  down  upon  the  foe,  as  in 
the  day  of  Gibeon,  hailstones  and  coals  of  fire,  and  hot  thun- 
derbolts !  "  Awake,  awake,  put  on  strength,  O  arm  of  Je- 
hovah !  Awake,  as  in  the  ancient  days,  in  the  generations 
of  old  !  Art  thou  not  it  that  hath  cut  Rahab  and  wounded 
the  Dragon?  Art  thou  not  it  which  hath  dried  the  sea,  the 
waters  of  the  great  deep ;  that  hath  made  the  depths  of  the 
sea  a  way  for  the  ransomed  to  pass  over?  Therefore  the 
redeemed  of  Jehovah  shall  return  and  come  with  singing 
unto  Sion ;  and  everlasting  joy  shall  be  upon  their  heads ; 
they  shall  obtain  gladness  and  joy;  and  sorrow  and  mourn- 
ing shall  flee  away." 

Such  is  the  song  of  the  disenthralled  as  they  stand  by  their 
city  gates  and  behold  melt  away  the  multitudes  of  their  foes 
like  clouds  before  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Headlong  on  all 
sides  the  Assyrians  flee,  and  every  man's  sword  is  turned 


I 


238  lines  for  lizzy's  album. 

against  his  fellow.  The  hawks  of  heaven  rejoice,  and  feed 
themselves  fat  with  the  flesh  of  heroes,  and  the  wild  beasts 
of  the  desert  keep  Carnival  with  them  for  a  whole  month, 
till  not  the  smell  of  an  Assyrian  is  left  over  the  whole  land, 
now  whitened  with  the  bones  of  heroes  and  their  steeds, 
inextricably  mingled  in  one  vast  burial. 

Thus  triumphs  the  widow  of  Manasses,  over  the  fall  of 
her  country's  foes.  Then  tuning  anew  her  long-neglected 
harp,  she  sings  a  victorious  hymn  like  Miriam  or  Deborah, 
to  celebrate  the  Divine  power  and  providence  shewn  over 
Israel,  and  sits  honored  as  a  mother  to  her  country  through 
coming  times ;  not,  like  a  Thalestris,  a  Penthesilea,  or  a 
Semiramis,  by  making  war  upon  foreign  states,  but  like  a 
Jael  or  a  Boadicea,  by  working  deliverance  at  home  from 
the  oppressions  of  alien  powers,  and  destroying  the  destroyers 
of  the  earth. 


LINES  FOR  LIZZY'S  ALBUM. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


O  rosy-bosom'd  Hours, 
That  sit  beyond  the  sphery  chime 

To  watch  o'er  men  and  spirits,  and  ope  the  doors 
Whence  the  sun  goes  forth  to  climb 

The  steep  of  heaven  supreme,  and  pours 
His  living  light  o'er  lands. 
Here  come,  O  loose-robed  of  all  dyes, 

That  Iris  loves,  and  where  a  sylph  commands, 
Bear  all  of  sweet-enamell'd  eyes 
The  Graces  tend  of  snowy  hands 

In  gardens  and  in  fields 
Where  the  red  star  looks  kindly  down,  ■ 

And  the  green  lands  all  smiling  florets  yield 
Of  wings  fann'd  o'er;  wherewith  they  crown 
The  brow  of  beauty,  and  love  hath  seal'd 

His  own  thro'  changing  years. 
And  last,  when  bound  with  Asphodel, 

A  pious  race  shall  stand  about  our  biers, 
Then  crown  us  by  Life's  crystal  well, 
With  amaranth  dissolved  from  fears. 


THE    ALL-SEEING  EYE 


BY  J.  K,  PAULDING. 


It  is  a  mistaken  idea  that  the  guilty  ever  escape  punish- 
ment in  this  world.  They  are  punished  here  as  well  as 
hereafter.  The  outward  gilding  of  wealth  and  prosperity 
may  impose  on  the  rest  of  mankind,  but  in  the  dark  closet 
which  every  man  carries  within  his  bosom,  the  spectres  of 
remorse  and  fear  work  in  the  silence  of  night  like  sheeted 
ghosts,  unseen  except  by  Him  to  whom  their  special  mission 
is  directed — shrieking  in  the  ear,  and  pointing  the  skinny 
finger  of  scorn  or  denunciation.  The  guilty  live  in  perpetual 
fear — and  a  life  of  fear  is  a  life  of  misery.  What  though 
their  crime  had  no  witness  but  the  eye  of  Omnipotence, 
which  penetrates  the  inscrutable  obscurity  of  midnight  dark- 
ness— what  though  years  of  impunity  may  have  stilled  the 
voice  of  conscience,  blunted  the  sting  of  remorse,  and  ren- 
dered detection  every  day  more  improbable — still  there  exists 
One  who  knows  it  all,  and  that  One  is  omnipotent.  He  can 
at  any  time  draw  the  secret  crime  from  the  bottom  of  the 
deep,  and,  when  least  expected,  unfold  the  dark  mystery  that 
has  so  long  been  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  men.  There  is  a 
dread  consciousness  of  this  power  haunting  the  imagination 
of  guilt  and  preying  on  its  vitals.  To  the  eye  of  the  world 
it  may  seem  prosperous  and  happy.  It  may  acquire  wealth 
and  honors  ;  it  may  be  possessed  of  the  very  fullness  of  out- 
ward prosperity  ;  but  there  is  a  worm  in  the  bud — a  disease 
of  the  heart  lurking  unseen  by  mortal  eyes,  unknown  and 
unsuspected  except  by  the  guilty  wretch  and  Him  who  sees 
and  knows  all  things.  In  this  world  we  see  nothing  but  the 
outside  ;  we  cannot  unfold  the  secrets  of  the  hearts  of  others, 


240 


THE  ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


and  enter  into  those  dread  mysteries  which  baffle  human 
investigation.  Hence  it  is  that  we  are  beyond  doubt  per- 
petually making  erroneous  estimates  of  human  enjoyment, 
and  not  unfrequently  becoming  guilty  of  the  presumption 
of  questioning  the  justice  of  Heaven  for  having  apparently 
made  such  a  strange,  unequal  distribution  of  happiness  in 
this  world.  Nothing  but  the  recognition  of  a  future  state  of 
reward  and  punishment,  it  would  seem,  could  have  possibly 
reconciled  the  superficial  view  we  have  of  those  secrets  with 
the  attributes  of  the  Supreme  Being.  The  following  tale, 
founded  on  fact,  will  illustrate  this  brief  introduction  : — 

More  than  forty  years  ago,  a  traveler  journeying  in  haste, 
and  on  an  occasion  of  great  interest,  found  himself  one  sum- 
mer evening — himself  and  his  horse  equally  weary — coursing 
slowly  along  the  bank  of  a  river  by  a  road  equally  solitary 
and  wild.  On  the  side  he  traveled,  the  country  was  rough, 
rocky,  and  barren,  without  a  habitation  for  many  miles; 
while  the  opposite  shore  exhibited  a  succession  of  cultivated 
fields,  beautifully  variegated  with  waving  woods  and  farm- 
houses, almost  aspiring  to  the  dignity  of  gentlemen's  seats. 
One  at  a  distance  especially  caught  his  attention,  as  exhibit- 
ing evidences  of  superior  taste,  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
grounds  and  the  architecture  of  the  building,  which  was 
much  more  expensive  than  any  other  within  sight. 

The  night  came  on  apace,  and  with  it  increasing  dark- 
ness, caused  by  a  vast  mass  of  gathering  clouds  that  ever 
and  anon  were  lighted  up  by  flashes  of  lightning  too  distant 
to  illuminate  the  obscurity  of  his  way.  As  he  proceeded  on 
slowly  and  wearily,  the  thunder,  muttering  afar  off  in  whis- 
pered nmrmurings,  foreboded  a  coming  storm,  and  the  traveler 
pricked  his  worn-out  steed  to  a  quicker  motion  in  vain,  for 
he  was  quite  tired  out.  By-and-bye,  a  black,  condensed 
cloud,  with  ragged  edges,  suddenly  appeared  above  the  high 
hills  that  ranged  along  the  river,  about  two  miles  from  its 
banks,  chequered  at  almost  every  moment  by  zig-zag  light- 
ning that  leaped  athwart  its  gloomy  face;  and  that  freezing 
pause  of  nature  which  so  frequently  immediately  precedes 
the  tempest  and  the  rain,  announced  its  speedy  coming. 


THE  ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


241 


The  traveler  gazed  anxiously  around,  but  the  incessant 
flashes  disclosed  no  place  of  refuge  as  he  plodded  along 
slowly,  close  to  the  margin  of  the  river.  At  length,  turning 
a  point  of  land,  he  was  enabled  to  perceive,  by  the  aid  of  a 
bright  flash  of  lightning,  whose  radiance  seemed  to  linger  for 
almost  half  a  minute  in  the  pitchy  sky,  a  little  cove  skirted 
by  a  border  of  white  sand,  in  the  centre  of  which  he  thought 
he  perceived  a  building  of  some  kind  or  other.  Descending 
the  bank,  which  was  low,  and  skirted  with  water- willows, 
he  peered  anxiously  around,  and,  by  the  aid  of  another 
flash,  discovered  a  rude  fishing-house,  which  had  been  hastily 
put  up  for  the  shad  season,  but  was  now  abandoned.  He 
could  hear  the  roaring  of  the  storm  across  the  river,  which 
was  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  wide;  and  there  was  no  time 
to  be  lost,  nor  any  other  shelter  nigh.  The  door  had  been 
broken  down,  and  the  traveler,  warned  by  the  drops  of  rain 
that  heralded  the  coming  torrent,  without  asking  leave  or 
knocking  for  admission,  entered  the  hut,  leading  his  horse 
after  him.  He  presently  discovered  that  the  floor  was  car- 
peted with  straw,  and,  groping  about,  lighted  on  a  rude  sort 
of  bedstead,  formed  of  rough  boards,  containing  a  bed  of 
strawT  without  any  ticking.  The  wind  whistled,  or  rather 
shrieked,  along  the  solitary  shore ;  the  waves  dashed  in 
quick  succession  on  the  pebbly  sand  ;  the  rain  fell  in  tor- 
rents; the  thunder  pealed  incessantly  ;  and  the  sky  seemed 
one  sheet  of  living  fire.  After  a  while,  the  traveler,  finding 
himself  weary,  unsaddled  his  steed,  placed  the  saddle  at  the 
head  of  his  bed  for  a  pillow,  and,  instead  of  lamenting  his 
hard  fate,  or  uttering  peevish  complaints,  thanked  Heaven 
for  a  dry  skin,  and  speedily  sank  into  a  profound  sleep — 
the  blessing  of  a  quiet  conscience  and  a  wearied  frame. 

He  slept  for  several  hours,  and,  in  all  probability,  would 
not  have  waked  till  morning,  had  not  his  horse,  which  was 
equally  tired,  hungry,  and,  above  all,  athirst,  at  length  taken 
a  fancy  to  step  out  of  the  hut  to  the  river  side,  where  he 
regaled  himself  with  a  temperance  draught,  and  signalized 
his  contentment  by  a  long,  loud,  shrill  neigh,  which  roused 
his  master,  who  jumped  up,  wide  awake,  to  see  w7hat  was 


THE  ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


the  matter.  He  found  the  scene  totally  changed.  The 
.storm  had  passed  away,  and  a  night  of  surpassing  beauty 
had  succeeded.  The  moon,  almost  as  round  as  young  Nov- 
vai's  shield,  was  a  little  declining  toward  the  western  horizon 
of  stately  hills,  giving  lustre  to  the  lonely  scene,  and  silver- 
ing the  quiet  woods  and  equally  quiet  waves.  Nothing 
seemed  to  live,  to  move,  or  have  a  being  on  earth,  but  him- 
self and  his  horse.  In  such  an  hour  and  such  a  scene,  if  a 
man  has  any  latent  spark  of  poetical  temperament  in  his 
mind,  it  will,  peradventure,  be  awakened  to  light  and  life  ; 
and  our  traveler,  after  gazing  awhile  at  the  enchanting  har- 
monies of  nature  spread  out  before  him,  became  gradually 
bewildered  in  the  mazes  of  memory  or  imagination.  For 
awhile  he  became  insensible  to  the  realities  before  him 
which  had  awakened  his  latent  enthusiasm;  and  their  place 
was  supplied  by  a  train  of  feelings,  a  succession  of  airy 
sprites  of  memory  or  hope,  that  danced  before  him  like  the 
moonbeams  on  the  rippling  waters,  whose  agitation  had 
subsided  into  a  waveless  mirror,  unruffled  by  a  single  zephyr, 
though  not  motionless,  as  appeared  from  the  trembling  of 
the  moonbeams  as  they  sported  on  the  surface. 

As  the  traveler  thus  stood  in  a  state  of  luxurious  abstrac- 
tion, forgetting  himself,  his  hunger,  and  his  pressing  errand, 
which  called  for  his  utmost  exertion  of  speed,  his  attention 
was  accidentally  attracted  by  a  boat  which  shot  out  suddenly 
from  behind  a  high  projecting  point  on  the  opposite  shore, 
a  little  higher  up  the  river,  whose  dark  brow,  covered  with 
hemlocks  and  pines,  contrasted  gloomily  with  the  shining 
river.  As  he  watched  the  little  white  boat,  which  passed 
noiselessly  yet  rapidly  toward  the  middle  of  the  river,  he 
could  perceive  that  it  contained  only  two  persons,  one  plying 
a  pair  of  oars,  the  other  sitting  at  the  stern.  All  on  a  sudden 
it  stopped.  The  man  in  the  stern — for  he  could  see  it  was 
a  man — rose  and  approached  him  at  the  oars  ;  the  traveler 
heard  a  single  wTild,  shrill  shriek — a  single  dull,  heavy  plunge, 
and  all  was  still  on  earth,  in  the  waters  beneath,  and  the 
heavens  above.  The  boatman  at  the  instant  resumed  his 
oars;  and  the  boat,  now  carrying  but  one  person,  darted 


THE   ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


213 


rapidly  behind  the  high  wooded  bluff,  and  disappeared,  but 
not  before  the  traveler  had  involuntarily  cried  out,  "  The 
All-seeing  Eye  is  upon  you  !" 

All  was  again  quiet  and  still,  and  the  scene  was  as  lovely 
as  ever.  But  the  traveler  relished  it  no  more,  and  all  his 
visions  fled  before  the  stern  reality  which  had  just  passed 
before  him.  He  did  not  doubt  for  a  moment  that  some 
horrible  crime  had  been  thus  perpetrated  in  the  silence  of 
night,  of  which  he  alone  was  a  witness ;  and  his  first  deter 
mination  was  to  stay  his  journey,  cross  the  river  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  enter  on  an  investigation  of  this  mysterious  midnight 
outrage.  Waiting  impatiently  for  the  dawn,  he  mounted 
his  horse,  and  proceeded  onward  as  speedily  as  the  hungry, 
jaded  animal  could  travel. 

He  had  not  ridden  more  than  three  miles  at  farthest  before 
he  came  to  a  rustic  inn,  at  which  he  was  glad  to  put  up, 
for  the  purpose  of  resting  and  refreshing  man  and  beast. 
Here,  while  awaiting  breakfast,  he  reflected  deeply  on  the 
scene  he  had  beheld  the  preceding  night,  and  the  course  it 
best  became  him  to  pursue.  He  recollected  that  he  was  a 
stranger,  and  with  neither  time  to  loiter  on  his  way,  nor  mo- 
ney to  expend  in  the  punishment  of  the  guilty.  He  had  not 
been  able  to  distinguish  the  air  or  features  of  the  person  who 
rowed  the  boat ;  he  only  knew  it  was  a  man,  and  was  sen- 
sible he  never  could  identify  him.  It  was  possible,  that,  by 
patient  inquiry  and  investigation,  a  chain  of  circumstances 
might  lead  to  the  detection  of  the  criminal ;  but  this  would 
be  a  work  of  time — and  his  time  was  precious,  for  he  was 
nastening  to  the  bedside  of  a  dying  parent.  Accordingly, 
after  refreshing  himself  and  his  horse,  and  making  some 
inquiries  of  the  landlord  respecting  the  occupant  of  the  fine 
house  he  trad  seen  the  evening  before  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river,  he  proceeded  on  his  journey,  without  detailing 
to  the  landlord,  or  any  one  of  his  family,  the  events  of  the 
preceding  night,  lest  it  might  cause  a  detention — leaving  the 
supposed  murderer  to  the  vengeance  of  heaven.  If,  under 
these  circumstances,  our  traveler  requires  any  justification, 
it  may  be  here  stated,  that  he  settled  it  finally  in  his  mind, 


244 


THE  ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


whenever  circumstances  would  permit,  to  return  to  this  part 
of  the  country,  and,  if  possible,  ferret  out  the  secret  murder. 
But  of  all  things  in  this  life,  man  is  the  least  master  of  the 
future.  He  imagines  himself  the  sole  director  of  his  own 
conduct,  though  nine  times  in  ten  his  fate  is  at  the  mercy 
of  events  which  he  can  neither  foresee  nor  control ;  and 
nothing  is  more  common  in  the  experience  of  mankind,  than 
success  which  eventually  leads  to  misery  and  ruin,  or  disap- 
pointments which  conduct  to  happiness  in  the  end. 

The  traveler,  after  a  long,  tedious  journey,  arrived  at  its 
end  only  to  see  his  father  die,  and  to  find  himself  the  heir 
of  one  who  left  nothing  behind  him  but  debts  which  his 
estate  was  insufficient  to  pay.    He  had  gone  the  way,  1  will 
not  say  of  all  flesh,  but  of  thousands,  yea,  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands, of  his  sanguine  countrymen,  who,  greedy  of  gain 
without  being  misers,  so  often  play  double  or  quits,  and,  in 
attempting  to  grow  suddenly  rich,  lose  all  at  a  single  throw. 
He  was  utterly  ruined  by  improving  his  estate  with  the 
money  and  labor  of  other  people  instead  of  his  own  ;  and 
the  traveler,  finding  the  case  desperate — having  declined 
the  heirship  of  debts  which  he  could  not  pay — the  entire 
property  was  sold  to  the  highest  bidder.    He  had  to  begin 
the  world  anew,  with  no  other  capital  than  his  own  exer- 
tions— a  position  which  carries  with  it  this  advantage,  that 
a  man  has  nothing  to  lose,  and  everything  to  gain.  How 
he  buffetted  with  the  strong  sea  of  life,  alternately  rising  and 
sinking — how  he  labored  and  struggled  in  distant  lands  for 
that  which  is  considered  the  great,  if  not  the  sole  end  of 
human  existence,  it  is  not  our  purpose  to  relate.    Suffice  it 
to  say,  that  he  returned  home  after  an  exile  of  many  years, 
with  a  full  purse  and  a  shattered  constitution,  purchased  his 
patrimonial  property,  and  set  himself  down  to  enjoy  the  fruits 
of  his  sacrifices  and  exertions,  on  the  spot  of  his  nativity, 
among  the  surviving  friends  of  his  youth. 

Immured  in  the  cares  and  turmoils  of  active  life,  and  at  a 
distance  from  all  his  former  associations,  he  had  long  since 
forgotten  the  adventure  of  the  old  fishing-house,  or  if  he  ever 
recalled  it  to  mind,  it  was  more  as  a  dim,  distant  vision,  than 


THE  ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


245 


as  an  actual  occurrence.  He  no  longer  cherished  the  deter- 
mination to  investigate  the  mysterious  midnight  murder,  but 
contented  himself  with  following  his  own  pursuits,  and  occa- 
sionally meddling  with  those  of  his  neighbors,  among  whom 
his  opinions  carried  great  weight,  for  he  was  a  rich  man, 
and  had  seen  much  of  the  world,  in  countries  so  entirely 
different  in  all  respects  from  his  own,  that  his  experience 
abroad  could  have  no  practical  application  whatever  at 
home. 

Among  the  changes  which  had  taken  place  in  this  topsy-, 
turvy  New  World  of  ours,  during  the  absence  of  the  traveler, 
was  the  appearance  of  a  very  splendid  mansion  placed  in  a 
fine  situation  about  half  a  mile  from  the  village,  which  it 
overlooked,  together  with  an  extensive  range  of  country  pre- 
senting a  variety  of  beautiful  scenery.  On  inquiring,  as 
people  naturally  do,  into  such  matters,  he  was  told  that  it 
belonged  to  a  gentleman  who  had  erected  it  several  years 
after  he  left  home  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  had  resided  there 
ever  since.  Everybody  had  something  to  say  of  the  gentle- 
man, as  he  was  called  by  way  of  distinction,  for  he  was 
reported  to  be  immensely  rich,  lived  in  great  splendor,  and, 
as  is  universally  the  case,  was  envied  by  all  his  neighbors. 
Among  other  particulars,  he  learned  that  th  i  owner  of  the 
splendid  mansion  was  a  bachelor,  or  at  least  had  neither 
wife  nor  children ;  that  he  had  a  numerous  family  of  men 
servants  and  maid  servants,  the  former  of  whom  wore  liveries  ; 
that  he  "  fared  sumptuously  every  day ;"  had  a  service  of 
plate,  drove  a  coach  and  four,  and  attended  very  regularly 
at  church.  Those  who  pretended  to  know  most  of  him, 
however,  thought,  though  they  could  not  exactly  tell  why, 
that  there  was  something  odd  or  particular  about  him — they 
^ould  not  exactly  tell  what,  but  supposed  it  originated  in  his 
being  a  bachelor,  with  no  onelo  control  him,  and  rich  enough 
to  do  as  he  pleased.  All,  however,  pronounced  him  a  happy 
man,  for  he  had  wherewithal  to  buy  everything  he  wanted, 
and  all  wished  themselves  in  his  place.  The  only  dissen- 
tient was  a  sage  old  lady  of  the  village,  who  could  take  a 
pinch  of  snuff,  look  wise,  shake  her  head,  and  exclaim — 


246 


THE  ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


"  "Well,  I  don't  know.  I  see  him  every  Sunday  at  church, 
but  somehow  he  looks  to  me  as  if  he  didn't  like  to  hear  the 
Ten  Commandments  read  ;  and  I  noticed — for  he  sits  right 
opposite  me — that  he  never  makes  any  response  to  that 
which  says,  '  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder.'  " 

This  excited  strange  suspicions  among  her  auditors,  who 
thereupon  watched  the  rich  gentleman  at  church — and  sure 
enough  it  was  as  the  old  woman  said  !  There  is  a  magnetic 
telegraph  in  every  country  village — a  pulsation  of  news, 
which  at  the  same  instant  seems  to  pervade  the  entire  body 
politic ;  and  from  this  time  the  eyes  of  the  whole  congrega- 
tion were  fixed  on  the  gentleman,  instead  of  the  parson.  On 
one  occasion  the  pastor  chose  this  commandment  as  his  text, 
and  dwelt  with  eloquent  fervor  on  the  enormity  of  the  crime 
as  well  as  the  guilty  horror  of  the  perpetrator.  In  the  course 
of  his  sermon  he  happened  to  fix  his  eye  on  the  gentleman, 
and  was  struck  with  the  paleness  of  his  countenance,  which 
at  the  same  time  exhibited  an  expression  of  the  deepest  emo- 
tion. He  attempted  to  rise,  as  if  to  leave  the  church,  but  sat 
down  again,  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands  against  the  pew, 
and  did  not  look  up  again  till  the  service  was  concluded. 
The  preacher  being  a  simple,  kind-hearted,  benevolent  man, 
as  became  his  calling,  no  shadow  of  suspicion  crossed  his 
mind  ;  and  when  next  day  he  heard  that  the  gentleman  had 
been  seized  with  a  sudden  indisposition  at  church,  he  thought 
no  more  of  the  matter 

Our  traveler,  who  had  seen  so  much  of  the  world  and  its 
inhabitants  that  he  was  not  anxious  to  extend  his  acquaint- 
ance, neither  sought  nor  was  sought  by  the  owner  of  the 
splendid  mansion  on  the  hill.  It  was  some  time  before  they 
met,  and  then  accidentally.  He  had,  without  exactly  know- 
ing why  or  wherefore,  set  him  down  in  his  own  mind  as  a 
purse-proud,  ostentatious  upstart ;  but  found  to  his  surprise, 
and,  it  may  be  added,  to  his  mortification,  that  his  conver- 
sation was  agreeable  and  unaffected,  and  his  deportment 
that  of  humility  rather  than  pride.  By  degrees  an  intimacy 
took  place  between  them,  and  they  were  much  together, 
insomuch  that  something  approaching  to  a  friendship  gra- 


THE  ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


247 


dually  grew  up  between  the  in.  At  first  the  traveller  saw 
nothing  particular  in  the  conduct  and  deportment  of  his  new 
acquaintance  ;  but,  as  their  intimacy  increased,  he  came  at 
length  to  notice  that  he  would  sometimes,  nay  often,  in  the 
midst  of  a  conversation  on  ordinary  subjects,  give  a  sudden 
start,  gaze  with  a  look  of  deep  apprehension  on  vacancy, 
and  appear  greatly  agitated.  If  he  saw  himself  observed, 
he  would  ascribe  it  to  a  nervous  affection  which  sometimes 
came  over  him  suddenly,  and  was  the  consequence  of  a  fright 
in  his  youth. 

The  intimacy  continued  and  the  friendly  feeling  increased, 
when  one  day  it  so  happened  that  the  traveler  called  at 
the  splendid  mansion,  and  entering,  as  was  now  his  custom, 
without  ceremony,  found  the  gentleman  was  not  in  his  usual 
sitting-room.  Supposing  he  would  soon  return,  he  took  up 
a  newspaper,  and  falling  on  the  catalogue  of  accidents,  crimes 
and  wonders,  with  which  it  is  customary  to  regale  the  ama- 
teur, his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  details  of  the  discovery 
of  a  murder  perpetrated  many  years  ago,  and  now  brought 
to  light  by  a  chain  of  extraordinary  circumstances.  Some 
of  these  details  once  more  recalled  to  his  recollection  the 
night  scene  at  the  old  fishing-house,  to  which  they  bore  a 
striking  resemblance  in  more  than  one  particular ;  and  he 
sat  with  the  paper  in  his  hand,  pondering  on  the  subject, 
when  the  gentleman  came  in,  looking  much  disturbed  and 
giving  a  sudden  start  as  he  saw  him  thus  employed. 

After  the  usual  salutations,  the  traveler  took  occasion  to 
refer  to  the  article  in  the  newspaper  he  held  in  his  hand, 
and  to  state  its  singular  coincidence  with  an  adventure 
which  had  happened  to  him  many  years  ago,  of  which  he 
related  the  particulars,  omitting,  among  other  things  he  had 
forgotten,  his  warning  exclamation.  As  he  proceeded,  the 
gentleman  became  greatly  agitated,  and,  ere  he  had  conclu- 
ded, after  a  succession  of  ineffectual  efforts  to  control  his 
emotions,  fell  back  in  his  chair,  exclaiming  in  agony,  "There 
was  another  witness  besides  the  All-seeing  Eye,  and  that 
witness  has  come !"  The  traveler  shuddered  with  a  newly 
awakened  conviction,  and,  ringing  for  a  servant,  took  his 


248 


THE  ALL-SEEING  EYE. 


departure,  almost  as  much  agitated  as  his  friend.  All  that 
day,  and  almost  all  the  succeeding  night,  he  pondered  on 
the  subject — tossed  with  conflicting  feelings,  and  doubting 
as  to  the  course  it  became  him  to  pursue  toward  a  man 
whom  he  had  cherished  as  a  friend,  but  who  he  was  now 
convinced  was  stained  with  a  deep,  long-concealed  crime 
He  could  not  doubt  for  a  moment  that  this  wretched  man — 
the  envy  of  all  his  neighbors — was  the  guilty  actor  of  the 
mysterious  scene  at  the  old  fishing-house  ;  and  that,  judging 
from  the  uncontrollable  emotions  he  had  exhibited  on  the 
relation  of  the  story,  if  publicly  charged  with  his  crime,  he 
would  render  all  other  testimony  unnecessary,  by  betraying 
himself.  If,  however,  he  should  be  mistaken  in  this  antici- 
pation, he  would  be  placed  in  a  position  equally  painful  and 
degrading,  in  coming  forward  with  an  accusation  he  could 
not  substantiate. 

The  next  morning  he  learned  that  the  gentleman  had 
been  suddenly  taken  ill  of  a  return  of  the  nervous  disorder 
to  which  his  servants  now  said  he  had  been  long  subjected ; 
that  at  times  he  exhibited  symptoms  of  mental  derange- 
ment ;  and  occasionally  uttered  strange  exclamations  which 
nobody  could  comprehend,  but  which  seemed  to  refer  to  some 
painful  circumstance  of  his  former  life.  His  most  usual  cry 
was,  that  "  The  All-seeing  Eye  was  upon  him,  and  the  wit- 
ness had  come  !"  Day  after  day  it  was  reported  he  was 
growing  worse,  and  that  his  agonies  increased.  The  phy- 
sician visited  him  often,  and  came  forth  shaking  his  head; 
the  good  pastor  called  too,  but  came  forth  with  clasped  hands 
and  eyes  cast  upward  ;  and  the  neighbors  began  to  pity  the 
man  they  had  envied  so  long.  Thus  matters  went  on,  until 
at  the  expiration  of  a  fortnight,  the  traveler  received  a  mes- 
sage, purporting  that  the  gentleman  desired  to  see  him  that 
evening  on  business  of  importance,  and  that  he  must  not 
fail  to  come,  as  it  was  the  last  time  they  would  ever  meet. 
Thus  urged,  he  determined  to  comply — and,  accordingly, 
when  the  evening  came,  he  took  his  way  toward  the  splendid 
mansion  on  the  hilt. 

He  found  the  gentleman  sitting  up  in  his  bed,  supported 


ft 


GENERAL    SCOTT    AND    JOHN  BRANT 


The  incident  which  forms  the  subject  of  the  picture,  oc- 
curred at  Niagara,  in  Canada,  after  the  unfortunate  battle  of 
Queenston.  The  battle  was  fought  on  the  13th  of  October, 
1812,  and  was  one  of  the  most  sharply  contested  in  the 
whole  war,  though  the  force  engaged  on  either  side  was  in- 
considerable. The  object  of  the  general  in  command,  Van 
Rensselaer,  was  specifically  to  gain  possession  of  the  heights 
at  Queenston,  thence  to  move  upon  Fort  George,  at  Niagara, 
and  there  take  up  quarters  for  the  winter,  in  the  enemy's 
country  ;  but  a  more  important  general  purpose  was  to  efface, 
by  some  brilliant  exploit,  the  recollection  of  the  disaster  that 
had  befallen  the  American  arms  in  the  inglorious  surrender 
of  General  Hull,  at  Detroit. 

The  British  force  at  Queenston  was  under  the  command 
of  General  Brock ;  the  command  of  the  expedition  against 
it  was  given  to  Colonel  Solomon  Van  Rensselaer  ;  and  his 
force  consisted  chiefly  of  militia,  supported  by  two  corps  of 
regulars,  each  three  hundred  and  fifty  strong,  under  Lieut. 
Colonels  Chrystie  and  Fenwick.  General  Scott,  then  a 
lieutenant  colonel,  in  command  of  a  regiment  of  artillery 
stationed  at  Schlosser,  near  Buffalo,  was  a  volunteer  in  the 
expedition  ;  but  as  he  would  not  consent  to  waive  his  rank, 
which  would  entitle  him  to  the  command  over  Colonel  Van 
Rensselaer,  who  held  a  commission  only  in  the  militia,  it  was 
arranged  that  he  should  not  cross  the  river,  but  remain  at 
Lewiston  and  there  use  his  artillery  to  such  advantage  as 
might  be  practicable. 

The  expedition  was  unfortunate  in  its  outset.  Erroneous 
information  had  been  received  of  General  Brock's  departure 


266 


GENERAL  SCOTT   AND  JOHN  BRANT. 


for  Detroit — the  intention  to  surprise  the  enemy  was  frus- 
trated— and  in  the  very  beginning  of  the  conflict,  after  the 
landing,  Colonels  Van  Rensselaer,  Fenwick,  and  Chrystie, 
and  Captains  Armstrong,  Malcolm,  and  Wool,  were  wounded. 
The  British  troops  were  driven  from  the  ground,  at  the  point 
of  the  bayonet,  but  at  the  close  of  the  first  brush  it  was  found 
that  Captain  Wool,  whose  wound  was  slight,  was  the  senior 
officer  capable  of  duty.  Colonel  Van  Rensselaer  had  received 
no  less  than  six  wounds,  three  of  which  were  very  severe. 

Intelligence  of  this  ravage  among  the  officers  being  received 
on  the  American  side,  Colonel  Scott  was  gratified  in  his 
ardent  desire  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  conflict ;  he  hurried 
across  the  river  and  assumed  the  command.  On  his  arrival 
he  found  that  the  heights  had  been  cleared  of  the  enemy  and 
a  battery  which  crowned  them  taken,  by  a  gallant  charge 
under  Captain  Wool ;  but  the  Americans  had  been  assailed 
in  turn  by  General  Brock  in  person,  and  driven  to  the 
edge  of  the  heights ;  whence,  however,  they  returned  by  a 
successful  rally,  in  which  General  Brock  was  killed,  and  his 
troops  thereupon  dispersed  in  confusion.  It  was  just  after 
this  repulse  of  the  British  that  Colonel  Scott  arrived  upon  the 
ground. 

His  first  effort  was  to  collect  the  force  and  bring  it  into 
order ;  in  doing  which  he  found  that  it  consisted  of  three 
hundred  and  fifty  regulars,  and  two  hundred  and  fifty-seven 
volunteers.  Turning  his  attention  next  to  a  piece  of  cannon 
which  had  been  spiked  by  the  British  before  their  flight,  and 
which  he  hoped  to  make  available,  his  momentary  absence 
was  taken  advantage  of  by  a  large  body  of  Indians,  who 
rushed  suddenly  upon  the  American  troops,  and  were  upon 
the  point  of  scattering  them  in  wild  disorder,  when  Colonel 
Scott  arrived  just  in  season  to  keep  them  steady  and  repulse 
the  savages.  The  leader  of  this  band  was  a  young  Indian, 
richly  attired  in  the  war-costume  of  the  red  men,  and  re- 
markable as  well  for  his  daring  as  his  activity.  His  name 
was  John  Brant,  otherwise  called  Ahyouwaighs — the  young- 
est son  and  successor  of  the  famous  Mohawk  chief  Joseph 
Brant,  the  formidable  partizan  of  the  war  of  the  revolution. 


GENERAL  SCOTT  AND  JOHN  BRANT.  267 

That  celebrated  personage  had  died  in  1807,  when  John 
Brant  was  thirteen  years  of  age ;  he  was  therefore  but  just 
eighteen  when  he  led  his  warriors  to  the  battle  at  the  heights 
of  Q,ueenston. 

The  field  was  held  by  the  Americans  several  hours,  while 
the  British  waited  for  reinforcements  ;  but  they  were  per- 
petually harrassed  by  the  Indians,  who  made  repeated  fly- 
ing attacks  upon  them,  in  which  numbers  both  of  militia 
and  regulars,  were  killed  or  wounded.  At  length  General 
Sheaffe,  on  whom  the  command  devolved  after  the  death  of 
General  Brock,  was  seen  advancing  from  Niagara,  at  the 
head  of  eight  hundred  men.  General  Van  Rensselaer,  who 
had  crossed  to  the  Canada  side  after  the  battle,  hastened 
back  on  ascertaining  the  approach  of  General  Sheaffe,  and 
exerted  all  his  eloquence  and  authority  in  endeavoring  to 
prevail  on  the  militia  under  his  command  to  push  across  and 
rescue  the  gallant  band  of  their  countrymen,  now  in  such 
pressing  danger ;  but  in  vain.  They  were  not  bound  to 
leave  their  own  country  ;  and  for  two  hours  Colonel  Scott 
and  his  men  looked  down  upon  the  steady  approach  of  an 
opposing  force  sufficient  to  crush  them  at  a  blow,  while  also 
within  sight  were  fifteen  hundred  Americans  who  might 
easily  have  joined  them  in  season  to  repel,  if  not  to  annihi- 
late the  enemy. 

But  there  was  no  wavering  in  the  little  company  thus 
abandoned  to  their  fate.  A  retreat  in  the  face  of  the  Indians 
was  more  perilous  even  than  the  attempt  to  maintain  the 
heights,  and  they  resolved  to  stand  their  ground  as  long  as 
possible.  This  they  did  for  some  time,  until  actually  dis- 
lodged by  the  bayonet,  when  they  scrambled  down  as  best 
they  might  to  the  water's  edge,  by  the  aid  of  shrubs  and 
bushes,  closely  pursued  by  the  Indians. 

There  were  no  boats  to  carry  them  off;  farther  resistance 
was  hopeless,  and  it  was  agreed  to  surrender.  Three  flags 
of  truce  were  sent  out  in  succession,  but  never  returned,  hav- 
ing been  shot  by  the  Indians.  Colonel  Scott  then  resolved 
to  go  himself,  bearing  a  white  cravat  fastened  to  his  sword  ; 
he  was  accompanied  by  Towson  and  Chrystie.  They 


268  GENERAL  SCOTT   AND  JOHN  BRANT. 

were  repeatedly  fired  on  by  the  Indians,  but  escaped 
unhurt.  They  were  encountered  and  attacked,  hand  to  hand, 
by  two  of  the  red  men,  in  one  of  whom  they  recognized  the 
youthful  and  agile  leader  in  the  conflicts  of  the  morning,  but 
just  as  the  struggle  was  at  the  hottest,  a  British  sergeant  in- 
terposed, the  combatants  were  separated,  and  Colonel  Scott 
was  led  to  the  presence  of  General  Sheaffe.  The  terms  of 
surrender  were  quickly  agreed  upon  ;  and  as  soon  as  the 
Indians  could  be  controlled  by  their  British  allies  and  em- 
ployers the  firing  ceased.  The  men  who  were  made  prison- 
ers with  Scott  were  a  hundred  and  thirty-nine  regulars,  and 
a  hundred  and  fifty-four  volunteers.  They  were  marched 
the  same  evening  to  Niagara,  where  Scott,  Towson,  and 
Chrystie  were  quartered  at  a  small  tavern,  having  invitations 
immediately  on  their  arrival,  to  dine  with  General  Sheaffe. 
Here  the  incident  occurred  which  is  represented  in  the  en- 
graving, and  a  full  account  of  which  is  given  in  Scone's 
"  Life  of  Brant,"  as  follows  : — 

"  Just  at  twilight  a  little  girl  entered  the  parlor,  with  a 
message  that  somebody  in  the  hall  desired  to  see  the  '  tall 
officer.'  Colonel  Scott  thereupon  stepped  out  of  the  parlor, 
unarmed,  of  course,  into  the  hall,  which  was  dark  and  nar- 
row, and  withal  incommoded  by  a  stairway  ;  but  what  was 
his  astonishment  on  again  meeting,  face  to  face,  his  evil  gen- 
iuses, the  brawny  Captain  Jacobs  and  the  light-limbed  chief. 
The  colonel  had  shut  the  door  behind  him  as  he  left  the  par- 
lor ;  but  there  was  a  sentinel  standing  at  the  outer  door,  who 
improperly  allowed  the  Indians  to  pass  in.  The  dusky  visi- 
tors stepped  up  to  the  colonel  without  ceremony,  aud  the 
younger,  who  alone  spoke  English,  made  a  brief  inquiry  as 
to  the  number  of  balls  which  had  cut  through  his  clothes, 
intimating  with  astonishment  that  they  had  both  been  firing 
at  him  almost  the  whole  day,  without  effect  But  while  the 
young  Indian  was  thus  speaking,  or  rather  beginning  thus 
to  speak — for  such,  subsequently,  seemed  to  be  the  import 
of  what  he  meant  to  say — Jacobs  rudely  seized  the  colonel 
by  the  arm,  attempted  to  whirl  him  round,  exclaiming  in 
broken  English,  '  Me  shoot  so  often,  me  sure  to  have  hit 


GENERAL  SCOTT  AND  JOHN  BRANT.  269 

somewhere.'  1  Hands  off,  you  scoundrel,'  cried  Scott,  indig- 
nant at  such  freedom  with  his  person,  and  adding  a  scornful 
expression  reflecting  on  the  Indian's  skill  as  a  marksman, 
as  he  flung  him  from  him. 

"  The  Indians  drew  instantly  both  dirk  and  tomahawk, 
when,  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  Scott,  who  had  for- 
tunately espied  a  number  of  swords  standing  at  the  end  of 
the  passage,  seized  one  from  its  iron  sheath  and  placed  him- 
self in  a  posture  of  defence  against  the  menacing  Indians. 
As  they  stood  in  this  picturesque  attitude,  Scott  with  his 
sword  ready  to  strike,  and  the  Indians  with  their  tomahawks 
and  dirks  in  the  air,  frowning  defiance  upon  each  other — 
Colonel  Coffin,  who  had  been  sent  with  a  guard  to  conduct 
Scott  to  the  General's  quarters  to  dinner,  sprang  into  the  pas- 
sage and  cried  4  Hold  !'  Comprehending  at  a  glance  the 
dangerous  position  of  Scott,  he  interfered  at  once,  by  sharp 
remonstrance,  and  also  by  weapon,  in  his  defence.  Jacobs, 
exasperated,  turned  upon  Colonel  Coffin,  and  uttering  a  men- 
ace, his  companion  also  unguardedly  turned  to  observe  the 
issue  of  the  new  combat.  The  scene  was  of  the  most  excit- 
ing and  earnest  character.  The  Indians  having  thus  turned 
upon  Coffin,  one  of  them  explained,  1  kill  you  !'  Scott  in- 
stantly raised  his  sabre,  which  was  heavy  and  substantial, 
so  that  a  descending  blow  would  have  fallen  upon  both  the 
savages  at  once,  and  called  out.  "  If  you  strike  I  will  kill 
you  both  !"  For  a  moment  they  stood  frowning,  the  pierc- 
ing eyes  of  the  Indians  gleaming  with  wild  and  savage  fury, 
while  Scott  and  Coffin  alike  looked  upon  both  with  angry 
defiance,  all  with  upraised  arms  and  glittering  steel.  Recov- 
ering somewhat  from  the  gust  of  passion  into  which  they  had 
been  thrown,  the  Indians  then  slowly  dropped  their  arms 
and  retired.  The  officer  who  thus  came  to  the  rescue  was 
the  aid  of  General  Sheaffe,  whose  errand  was  to  conduct  the 
colonel  to  dinner,  and  who,  by  this  timely  arrival,  probably 
saved  his  life.  Beyond  doubt  it  was  no  part  of  the  young 
chiefs  design  to  inflict  injury  upon  the  captive  American 
commander.  His  whole  character  forbids  the  idea,  for  he 
was  as  generous  and  benevolent  in  his  feelings  as  he  was 


270 


PRAYER. 


brave.  Having  been  exhausting  much  ammunition  upon 
the  colonel  during  the  day,  this  visit  was  one  of  curiosity,  to 
ascertain  how  near  they  had  come  to  the  accomplishment  ot 
their  object.  Like  Cassius,  the  Indian  bears  anger  as  the 
flint  does  fire,  though  not  always  cold  again  so  soon.  It  was 
the  same  with  Scott.  Neither  would  allow  of  personal  free- 
dom ;  the  colonel  did  not  fully  comprehend  the  object  of  their 
visit,  and  a  sudden  encounter,  that  had  well  nigh  proved 
fatal,  was  the  consequence." 


PRAYER 


BY  MRS.  LOUISE  WORTHEN. 


Prayer  is  the  incense  of  the  soul, 

The  odor  of  the  flower, 
And  rises  as  the  waters  roll 

To  God's  controlling  power! 
Within  the  soul  there  would  not  be 

This  infinite  desire, 
To  whisper  thoughts  in  prayer  to  Thee. 

Hadst  Thou  not  lit  the  tire. 

Prayer  is  the  spirit  speaking  truth 

To  Thee,  whose  love  divine 
Steals  gently  down  like  dew  to  soothe, 

Or  like  the  sunbeams  shine  ; 
For  in  the  humblest  soul  that  lives, 

As  in  the  lowliest  flower, 
The  dew-drop  back  his  image  gives, 

The  soul  reflects  His  power ! 

At  night,  when  all  is  hushed  and  still 

And  e'en  soft  echo  sleeps, 
A  still  small  voice  doth  o'er  me  thrill. 

And  to  each  heart-throb  leaps: 
It  is  the  spirit-pulse  which  beats, 

Forever  deep  and  true ; 
The  atom  with  its  author  meets, 

As  sunlight  greets  the  dew! 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


u  A  lily  fair  which  God  did  bless, 
And  which  from  Nature's  heart  did  draw 
Love,  wisdom,  peace,  and  heaven's  perfect  law." 

Reader,  have  you  ever  traveled  in  Connecticut,  over  that 
part  of  New-Haven  county  which  lies  west  of  the  fair  city 
of  that  name  ?  I  say  traveled — but  in  another  sense  than 
that  which  the  word  seems  to  have  with  that  class  of  blank 
neutralities  who  appear  to  feel  that  they  must  traverse  the 
country  every  season,  from  Maine  to  Louisiana,  and  exclaim, 
"  Oh,  beautiful !"  "  Ah,  exquisite  !"  as  often  as  their  guide- 
book says  it  is  proper.  For  this  class  of  persons  the  Word 
has  no  other  than  literally  the  definition  of  Webster  :  "  Travel 
— to  journey  ;"  "  Journey — to  travel."  Alas  !  for  them  ! 
This  world,  in  which  the  true  soul  walks,  seeing  God  and 
listening  to  the  universe,  "  the  great  iEolian  harp,"  with  its 
solemn  and  mysterious  music  sounding  from  its  countless 
strings,  to  them  appears  spread  out  in  its  glory  only  to  serve 
as  a  race-ground  for  fashion,  and  what  Carlyle  so  express- 
ively denominates  H  gigmanity."  There  is  another  class  of 
travelers  who,  from  defect  of  vision,  caused  not  by  sun-spots 
but  by  dollar-spots,  see  before  their  eyes,  in  the  most  beauti- 
ful landscapes,  nothing  but  mill-seats,  timber-lots,  railroad 
tracks,  choice  situations  for  manufacturing  establishments  ; 
and  were  it  practicable,  would  sell  the  blessed  sunlight  which 
brightens  the  flowers  on  their  father's  graves,  for  "a  hand- 
some consideration."  Heaven  defend  us  from  all  such  trav- 
elers ! 

But  you,  gentle  reader,  have  you  ever  stood  on  any  of 
those  broken  chains  of  hills  in  the  region  I  refer  to.  and  gazed 
over  the  rich  landscapes,  the  sunny  valleys  and  fair  villages, 
and  felt  how  much  unwritten  scripture  there  is  on  earth  to 


272 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


gladden  and  elevate  the  heart  of  man  ?  Whoever  is  familiar 
with  this  region  cannot  fail  to  remember  the  little  village  ot 
Liston,  with  its  white  cottages  nestling  on  the  hill-side,  and 
scattered  through  the  valley. 

In  the  scenery  around  it,  the  hills,  or  as  the  inhabitants 
call  them,  the  mountains,  in  some  places  rise  in  isolated 
peaks  ;  but  to  the  northwest  they  sweep  far  away  in  an  un- 
broken chain,  here  bare  as  the  heath  where  Fingal  and 
Ossian  fought,  and  there  grey  old  rocks,  cliffs  piled  upon 
cliffs,  "  here  dark  with  the  thick  moss  of  ages,  and  there  of 
chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt  has  splintered  them." 
Then  again,  for  miles  the  range  presents  a  continued  sea  of 
green,  wave  upon  wave,  up  to  the  very  summits.  At  inter- 
vals, in  the  most  precipitous  places,  are  the  "  sliding-paths." 
These  are  spaces,  some  yards  in  width,  where  brushwood 
and  soil  are  worn  away  by  the  furious  descent  of  logs,  which 
in  winter  the  farmer,  after  having  freed  them  from  branches, 
precipitates  from  the  summits,  to  the  no  small  content  of  his 
boasted  Bent  and  Bright,  these  finding  it  far  more  satisfactory 
to  stand  quietly  chewing  their  cuds  below,  waiting  to  drag 
the  loaded  sled  over  the  smooth  road  to  their  master's  door, 
than  to  be  breaking  snow-paths  up  the  almost  impassable 
side  of  the  mountain. 

The  village  is  entirely  enclosed  by  these  hills,  except  on 
the  south-western  side,  where  a  noble  tract  of  land  is  dis- 
played to  view,  stretching  away  until  its  borders  are  lovingly 
embraced  by  the  blue  waves  of  Long  Island  Sound.  The 
village,  with  its  well-kept  plot  of  grass,  proudly  called 
a  green  ;  the  neat  church  and  school-house  gleaming  forth 
from  among  the  trees  ;  the  little  river  which  hies  its  winding 
way,  like  a  happy  child,  gaily  singing  to  each  flower  on  its 
banks ;  and,  above  all.  that  gateway  which  leads  from  the 
transient  to  the  eternal — that  portal  through  which  so  many 
of  earth's  weary  children  long  to  enter  and  be  at  rest — the 
grave-yard — that  place  so  dear  to  glorified  spirits — not  merely 
because  through  this  gate  they  expect  to  receive  those  deal 
ones  whom  they  left  on  earth,  but  also  because  there  lie 
those  mouldering  bodies  in  which,  when  on  earth,  they  joyed. 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


273 


sorrowed,  loved  and  were  beloved,  and  which  they  know 
they  shall  receive  again,  purified  and  beautified  by  the  lov- 
ing-kindness of  God  ;  the  grave-yard,  here  so  appropriately 
situated  and  adorned,  that  nothing  is  allowed  to  profane  its 
spirit  or  wear  away  its  "  monitory  virtue these,  and  all 
things  that  unite  with  them  to  make  the  scenery  around  Lis- 
ten so  beautiful  to  the  soul,  speak  emphatically  to  the  heart 
of  the  traveler  that  great  watchword  of  Christianity — Peace  ; 
and  few  can  resist  the  influence,  whatever  may  have  been 
their  experience  in  life.  Oh  !  how  many  such  scenes  there 
are  in  this  beautiful  world  of  ours,  speaking,  like  him  of 
Bethlehem,  "  Peace  and  good  will  to  men  !" 

In  one  of  these  fair  valleys  there  is  a  nook  which,  for  its 
retirement  and  singular  beauty,  well  deserves  the  name  of 
Fairy  Glen.  Here,  one  beautiful  day  in  the  spring  of  18 — , 
sat  a  young  maiden  under  the  shade  of  a  large  oak,  which 
mother-like,  spread  out  its  branches  to  screen  the  bubbling 
spring  near  its  foot.  Her  apron  was  filled  with  flowers,  of 
which  she  was  twining  a  wreath  to  adorn  a  pet  lamb  that 
stood  gravely  gazing  at  the  reflection  of  his  own  face  in  the 
pure  waters  of  the  spring.  She  was  one  of  those  who,  in  a 
crowded  saloon  or  on  a  fashionable  promenade,  would  be 
passed  by  unnoticed,  but  who  reveal  a  beauty  that  at  once 
surprises  and  gladdens  us  when  met  in  situations  adapted  to 
their  character,  so  that  we  wonder  at  our  own  stupidity  in 
not  discovering  it  before.  And  surely  no  scene  could  furnish 
a  finer  setting  for  the  beauty  of  Lucy  Maynard  than  that 
around  her.  No  circumstances  could  be  more  finely  adapted 
to  call  forth  those  quick  changes  of  expression  in  which  her 
beauty  consisted,  than  those  under  which  she  appeared  now. 
The  dell  and  the  mountain  side  displayed  every  variety  of 
green,  from  the  pale  yellowish  hue  of  the  aspen  to  the  dark 
green  of  the  cedar.  The  deep  blue  sky,  spotted  with  light, 
fleecy  clouds,  which,  like  wanton  children,  chased  each  other 
to  the  southwest,  was  in  perfect  keeping  with  the  changeful 
beauty  of  the  maiden's  face.  Had  you  seen  her  as  she  sat 
there,  now  bent  over  her  pet  to  ascertain  if  the  wreath  had 
reached  the  required  length,  now  suddenly  pausing  and  lay- 


274 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


ing  her  wreath  on  her  knee,  seeming  not  so  much  to  think  as 
dream,  with  an  expression  in  her  deep  blue  eye.  that  was 
pensive  and  yet  too  clear  and  serene  for  sadness,  and  now 
again,  shaking  back  from  her  face  the  profusion  of  bright 
hair,  which  in  hue  was 

"  Like  the  waterfall,  leaf-tinged  with  brown, 
And  lit  with  the  sunrise," 

while  a  roguish  smile,  awakened  by  some  wayward  fancy, 
flitted  across  her  face,  you  would  have  said  that  her  heart 
was  a  dwelling-place  for  nothing  but  joy. 

At  length,  in  answer  to  a  bird  in  the  branches  overhead, 
she  sang — 

I. 

Gaze  round  thee  and  listen!  sweet  spring  is  returning! 

A  chorus  of  welcome  bursts  forth  from  each  spray— 
With  offerings  of  flowers,  see,  the  fruit  trees  are  bending, 

While  shiny  young  leaves  with  a  freshening  life  play. 
II. 

The  tint  on  the  cheek  of  the  floweret  is  deepening, 
The  hoar-frost  has  hied  to  his  caverns  away — 

A  life-giving  impulse  all  Nature  is  moving, 

As  thrills  in  her  bosom  the  spring's  loving  ray. 

nr. 

Down  the  mount  to  the  valley,  the  brooklet  comes  dancing, 
And  gaily  it  sings  to  each  flower  on  its  way, 

While  deep  in  the  wood  sits  the  nightingale  singing, 

Where,  through  the  close  leaves,  peeps  the  soft  light  of  day. 
IV. 

O'er  Nature's  new  glories  the  sunbeams  are  streaming — 

All  sisterly  graces  the  gardens  display, 
And  thousands  of  blossoms  their  tints  are  commingling, 

Whose  young  dewy  dyes  spread  the  rainbow's  array. 

As  the  last  murmur  of  her  song  died  away  in  the  air,  she 
placed  the  last  wild  honeysuckle  in  her  wreath.  Her  work 
was  completed.  She  sat  for  some  moments  gazing  earnestly 
down  the  path  that  led  to  the  village,  until  her  attention  was 
suddenly  drawn  to  the  opposite  direction  by  the  sound  ot 
approaching  footsteps.  She  had  scarcely  sprung  to  her  feet, 
when  a  youth  in  a  hunting  dress,  clearing  the  head  of  the 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


275 


spring  at  a  bound,  deposited  his  gun  and  game  at  her  side, 
exclaiming — 

"  Ah  !  Lucy,  dear,  I  thought  you  would  be  here  !  So  I 
have  come  round  by  the  mountain  path,  to  bring  you  some 
of  your  favorite  flowers,  these  wild  violets  and  blood-root 
blossoms." 

"  Thanks,  Charles.  Now,  if  you  had  brought  them  before 
I  had  finished  Daisy's  wreath,  how  beautifully  the  blue  vio- 
lets would  have  contrasted  with  the  white-thorn  and  wild 
honeysuckle  !" 

"  Ah  !  Lucy,  what  a  serious  misfortune  !  But  they  shall 
have  the  honor  of  being  worn  by  Daisy's  mistress,  my  own 
pet,  Lucy,"  said  the  youth,  laughing  as  he  twined  them  in 
her  hair. 

"Lucy,"  said  he,  suddedly  pausing  in  his  graceful  em- 
ployment, "  do  you  remember  the  day  when  you  and  little 
Alice  Granger,  in  spite  of  aunt  Esther's  commands,  ran 
away  and  followed  me  to  Green's  Pond,  to  see  father  and 
Mr.  Granger  wash  sheep  ?" 

"  And  what  a  ducking  I  got,  as  Alice  tumbled  over  me  in 
our  haste  to  escape  from  the  big  water-snake  that  lay  asleep 
on  the  rock  ;  and  how  you  dragged  me  out,  and  wrapped  me 
in  your  jacket,  and  carried  me  home ;  and  the  doses  of 
motherwort  tea  aunt  Esther  forced  me  to  swallow  ?  Oh  ! 
yes,  I  remember  it  all  I  have  detested  the  very  sight  of 
motherwort  ever  since." 

"  Ah  !  little  Alice  !"  said  Charles,  "  I  wonder  if  she  is  as 
happy  at  the  far  west,  as  she  was  in  those  days  when  her 
brother  Fred  and  I  drew  you  and  her  back  and  forth  to 
school,  on  our  sleds." 

"  Yes,  and  turned  us  over  into  the  snow-drifts,  why  don't 
you  add?"  said  the  laughing  girl.  "But  come,  Daisy,  you 
and  I  must  go  home,  or  aunt  Esther  will  rally  the  neighbor- 
hood to  seek  us." 

"  Stay  one  moment,  Lucy  ;"  said  the  young  man,  while 
his  face  expressed  the  working  of  some  painful  emotion. 
"  Stay  one  moment.  This  talk  of  our  school-days  has  well- 
nigh  made  me  forget  that  we  are  not.  children.    You  know 


276 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


that  my  mother's  death  has  left  me  almost  isolated  in  the 
world.  My  step-father  is  a  kind,  well-meaning  man,  but  he 
cannot  understand  me.  He  cannot  appreciate  my  plans,  and 
thinks  it  folly  for  me  to  pursue  my  studies.  Besides,  if  he 
were  willing  to  aid  me,  he  has  a  large  family  of  his  own  chil- 
dren to  care  for.  There  is  a  brother  of  my  mother  who  is  a 
merchant  in  Cincinnati.  He  went  there  many  years  ago,  and 
has  recently  written  for  me  to  come  to  him.  Mr.  Clayton, 
who  has  always  been  kind  to  me,  and  has  advanced  me  in 
my  studies  by  every  means  in  his  power,  advises  me  to  go. 
But  it  pains  me,  Lucy,  to  leave  a  place  associated  with  so 
many  sweet  remembrances — the  place  of  my  mother's  grave. 
And  you,  Lucy,  you  will  not  forget  me  !" 

"  Charles  !  Charles  !"  was  the  answer,  and  those  deep  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"  Forgive  me,  if  I  have  pained  you,  Lucy,"  he  continued, 
"  but  it  is  so  sad  to  be  alone  in  the  world  !  With  a  heart  full 
of  kind  thoughts  and  feelings,  to  feel  that  no  one  understands 
you,  and  that  your  existence  is  necessary  to  no  one's  happi- 
ness. Oh !  Lucy,  if  you  knew  how  deeply  I  have  felt  this, 
you  would  forgive  me." 

But  while  we  leave  Charles  to  detail  his  future  plans  to 
his  gentle  listener,  as  they  slowly  wend  their  way  home,  we 
will  look  a  little  into  their  earlier  history. 

Charles  Stanton,  who  now  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  stood 
almost  penniless  in  the  world,  at  his  birth  was  the  sole  pros- 
pective heir  of  the  great  Stanton  estate,  situated  in  one  of 
the  most  thriving  towns  in  eastern  Massachusetts.  His 
father  was  one  of  those  pleasant,  genial  souls,  whom  every- 
body calls  "  good-fellows."  Born  to  vast  wealth,  and  unac- 
customed to  labor,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  or  his 
family  could  by  any  possibility  become  poor  ;  or  that  there 
was  anything  in  life  for  him  to  do  but  live  as  a  "  good  fel- 
low," and  make  the  world  a  pasture  for  his  self-indulgence. 
He  kept  horses  and  dogs.  He  hunted,  drove,  and  fished ; 
always  sure  of  finding  companions  in  abundance.  Among 

the  humbler  shops  which  surrounded  the  green  of  S  , 

stood  that  of  Messrs.  Gresham  and  Bartlett,  which  was  de- 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


277 


nominated  "  the  store,"  par  excellence.  This  was  his  favor- 
ite lounging  place,  where  he  took  precedence  as  king  of  the 
idlers,  and  paid  the  bill.  Henry  Stanton  was  not  then  what 
was  called  a  drunkard.  In  common  parlance  he  was  termed 
a  "  high  fellow,"  one  who  liked  a  "  good  spree."  Alas  !  the 
gentle  attentions  of  his  wife  could  not  win  him  from  the 
love  of  strong  drink.  He  went  on  spending,  and  never  so 
much  as  dreaming  that  the  condition  of  his  property  might 
require  examination.  His  estate  was  left  to  the  careless  care 
of  others.  Therefore  it  was  not  mysterious  to  any  one  but 
himself,  when,  after  a  few  years,  the  funds  necessary  to  sup- 
port his  mode  of  life  were  not  forthcoming.  He  looked  grave. 
But  his  credit  was  good  ;  he  could  raise  money  without  diffi- 
culty. He  borrowed  ;  mortgages  followed  ;  and  on  each  new 
mortgage  he  doubled  his  drams,  until  at  length  a  violent  fever, 
the  consequence  of  one  of  his  "  high  sprees,"  laid  him  in  his 
grave.  His  sorrowful  widow  and  little  boy  were  left  with 
nothing  save  a  small  pittance,  the  proceeds  of  her  claims  on 
the  estate,  which  was  paid  annually  by  the  new  owner. 

Ellen  Stanton,  wishing  to  avoid  a  place  which  could  only  . 
remind  her  of  the  past,  and  influenced  perhaps  by  some 
movement  of  wounded  pride,  accepted  the  invitation  of  an 
early  and  beloved  frieud,  who  offered  her  a  share  of  her 
humble  home,  and,  what  was  still  better,  one  of  the  warmest 
places  in  her  noble  heart.  This  friend  was  no  other  than 
Lucy  Maynard's  aunt  Esther.  She  was  one  of  that  class  of 
"  us  women,"  who,  as  some  one  has  said,  or  if  it  has  not  been 
said,  we  say  it  now,  are  born  to  keep  the  world  in  equilibrium. 
She  was  an  old  maid ;  and  God  bless  all  such,  we  say,  for 
we  do  not  see  how  the  world  could  well  get  on  without  them. 
Lucy  was  the  rich  legacy  left  her  by  an  only  sister,  the 
widow  of  a  sea-captain,  whose  last  resting-place  was  beneath 
the  blue  waves  he  had  loved  so  well  His  wife,  a  part  of 
whose  very  existence  he  was,  seemed  no  longer  a  creature' 
.of  earth  after  the  news  of  his  death  reached  her.  She  grew 
paler  and  paler,  her  eye  brighter  and  brighter,  as  the  hour 
drew  near  when  she  felt  assured  she  should  again  meet  him 
who  had  been  her  life  on  earth,  until  at  last  her  wish  was 


278 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


realized,  and  she  slept  in  the  grave,  and  awoke  in  heaven. 
At  the  time  of  her  mother's  death,  Lucy  was  about  five  years 
old.  A  few  hours  before  she  died,  the  mother  called  the 
little  girl  to  her  side,  and  imprinting  a  last  kiss  on  her  lips, 
said  to  her  sister,  in  the  low,  husky  tones  of  death,  "  Esther  \ 
Esther  !  make  her  a  true-hearted  woman  !"  Nobly  did  aunt 
Esther  fulfil  the  dying  injunction  of  her  sister.  To  this  end 
she  directed  all  her  efforts.  Her  true  heart,  superior  mind, 
experience  and  strong  good  sense,  counterbalanced  the  want 
of  education  ;  but  she  was  not  wholly  deficient  in  this,  as 
she  had  received  the  benefit  of  the  schools,  such  as  they 
were,  for  persons  in  her  circumstances,  fifty  years  ago.  With 
rare  tact  she  united  the  qualities  of  companion  and  mother  ; 
and  while  she  taught  her  adopted  daughter  all  the  myste- 
ries of  pastry,  soup,  and  soap,  she  could  also  sing  with  her 
"  old  songs,  the  music  of  the  heart,"  and  sympathize  with 
her  admiration  of  the  beautiful,  whether  in  nature  or  in 
books,  if  not  always  with  equal  enthusiasm,  at  least  with  a 
hearty  good  will.  When  Charles  Stanton  and  his  mother 
came  to  reside  with  her,  aunt  Esther's  heart,  which  before 
seemed  to  be  wholly  occupied  by  Lucy,  immediately  ex- 
panded to  make  room  for  Charles.  He  was  two  years  older 
than  Lucy,  and  became  her  protector  in  all  the  civil  wars  of 
the  village  school,  participated  in  all  her  studies  and  amuse- 
ments, and  was  the  companion  of  her  visits  to  the  old  pas- 
tor, Mr.  Clayton. 

The  old  man  dearly  loved  the  child,  as  he  always  called 
Lucy,  and  would  even  lay  aside  his  favorite  volume  of  Jer- 
emy Taylor,  when  her  light  knock  was  heard  at  the  study 
door.  Charles  soon  became  almost  as  dear  to  him  as  Lucy  ; 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the  old  man,  with  Charles  and 
Lucy  seated  by  him,  alternately  reading  aloud  some  of  his 
favorite  volumes  of  history,  poetry,  or  romance,  or  listening 
intently  as  he  pointed  out  some  new  beauty  of  the  author,  or 
attempted  to  satisfy  their  craving  for  knowledge  from  the 
rich  and  varied  lore  of  his  own  mind. 

At  length  his  mother's  second  marriage,  which  by  the 
way  was  a  marriage  of  expediency,  brought  another  change 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


279 


for  Charles.  She  accepted  the  hand  of  a  worthy  farmer,  and 
took  Charles  to  reside  with  her.  But  he  still  continued  to 
call  aunt  Esther's  cottage  "  home  ;"  and  every  leisure  moment 
was  passed  either  there  or  at  the  parsonage.  His  mind  be- 
gan to  advance  into  that  world  where  all  is  so  much  brighter 
than  the  "light  of  common  day ;"  but  his  admiration  of 
nature  and  passionate  love  of  books  often  made  him  the  butt 
of  his  step-father's  good-natured  ridicule.  The  honest  man 
would  say,  "  he  did  not  see  what  good  there  was  in  so  much 
laming.  It  neither  helped  hoe  the  corn  nor  plant  the  pota- 
toes ;  and  as  for  1  landskips/  as  Charles  calls  them,  he  had 
rather  see  the  deep  red,  shining  sides  of  his  four  years  olds,  than 
all  the  skips  in  the  world."  But  Charles  found  a  dear  and 
appreciating  friend  in  Mr.  Clayton.  The  old  pastor,  delighted 
with  the  boy's  quickness  of  perception  and  eagerness  to  ac- 
quire knowledge,  willingly  retraced  with  him  the  studies  of 
his  earlier  years.  In  the  interest  he  felt  for  the  boy,  and  the 
delight  he  found  in  superintending  his  studies,  he  seemed  to 
find  again  some  of  the  long-lost  pleasures  of  his  boyhood  and 
youth.  Charles's  mental  life  advanced  rapidly.  As  he 
grew  older  he  became  different  from  the  young  people  around 
him  in  the  village.  He  no  longer  took  the  same  interest  in 
their  pleasures,  though  he  sometimes  mingled  with  them, 
and  listened  kindly  to  their  plans  of  amusement.  He  was 
respected  by  them,  yet  like  all  those  who  live  more  from 
within  than  from  without,  he  was  neither  understood  nor 
appreciated.  After  the  death  of  his  mother  he  felt  more  alone 
than  ever.  He  had  indeed  nothing  left,  save  the  love  of  Mr. 
Clayton,  aunt  Esther,  and  Lucy.  But  this  was  a  priceless 
possession.  Its  inspiration  made  his  soul  strong  and  buoy- 
ant. He  saw  a  struggle  before  him  as  he  looked  into  the 
future,  but  his  eye  grew  clear,  and  his  heart  swelled  with 
gladness  aud  courage.  One  week  after  his  interview  with 
Lucy  at  the  spring,  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  West. 

We  must  now  be  allowed  to  transport  our  readers  to  the 

good  town  of  S  .    It  is  no  longer  the  same  as  when  Mrs. 

Stanton  left  it  to  reside  with  aunt  Esther  in  Liston.  The 
spirit  of  "  the  times"  has  been  there.    The  erection  of  facto- 


r<80 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


ries,  and  its  proximity  to  the  Boston  and  Providence  railroad, 
have  greatly  swelled  its  importance.  Now  it  not  only  boasts 
of  three  lawyers'  offices,  and  four  physicians,  but  "  the  store" 
has  grown  to  twice  its  former  size.  Messrs.  Gresham  and 
Bartlett  have  been  compelled  to  enlarge  it,  in  order  to  com- 
pete successfully  with  numerous  rivals  round  the  green,  who 
threatened  to  annihilate  them  by  the  superior  splendor  of 
their  sign-boards  and  extent  of  their  buildings.  That  large 
white  house  on  the  south  corner  of  the  green  is  the  residence 
of  Squire  Benson,  attorney -and-counsellor-at-law,  as  he  styles 
himself.  That  lady  who  is  peeping  from  behind  the  curtain 
of  the  parlor  window,  and,  with  an  expression  of  displeasure 
on  her  face,  watching  the  two  young  ladies  who  stand  chat- 
ting on  the  sidewalk,  is  Mrs.  Benson,  his  wife.  That  young 
lady  who  has  now  left  her  companion  and  is  coming  toward 
the  house,  is  Miss  Julia  Esther  Benson,  his  daughter,  the 
would  be  belle  of  the  town. 

"  Julia,  my  dear,"  says  Mrs.  Benson,  as  her  daughter  en- 
ters the  room,  "  was  not  that  Caroline  Hawley  with  whom 
you  spoke  just  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma ;  I  met  her  as  she  was  going  to  the  shop,  and 
stopped  her  to  ask  if  Mrs.  Shirley  had  yet  received  the  latest 
fashions  from  Boston."  / 

"  But  I  should  think  your  own  sense  of  propriety  would 
teach  you  that  it  is  not  fitting  for  Julia  Benson  to  be  seen 
speaking  familiarly  to  a  milliner's  apprentice  in  the  public 
street,  directly  in  front  of  Doctor  Seward's  too  ;  and  Mrs. 
Weldon,  his  wife's  cousin,  the  senator's  lady  and  her  daugh- 
ters, who  are  so  exclusive,  now  visiting  there  !" 

11  Why,  ma,  I  am  sure  the  Weldon's  did  not  see  me.  Be- 
sides, Caroline  Hawley  dresses  very  genteely.  Only  last 
year  you  were  so  anxious  to  have  me  intimate  with  her  that 
you  gave  your  great  Christmas  party,  merely  to  secure  me 
the  right  of  entree  to  her  father's  brilliant  parties." 

"  True,  Julia,  but  there  is  some  difference  between  Cathe- 
rine Hawley,  the  reputed  heiress  of  a  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars, and  Catherine  Hawley  the  milliner's  apprentice.  Really 


LUC/    MAYNARD.  281 

failures  are  so  frequent  that  it  is  necessary  for  pec  pie  of  rank 
and  fashion  to  be  exclusive." 

"Well,  ma,  I  suppose  you  know  best.  But  Caroline  was 
always  so  pleasant ;  I  liked  her  very  much,"  said  Julia,  as 
she  left  the  room. 

This  short  conversation  will  enable  the  reader  to  gain 
some  glimpses  of  the  ruling  spirit  of  lawyer  Benson's  house. 
Striving,  ever  striving  !  but  alas  !  not  for  the  imperishable, 
the  eternal ;  not  to  realize  the  truth  by  which  the  pure  in 
heart  see  God — but  for  the  glitter,  the  glare,  the  pretension 
of  that  contemptible  thing  called  fashion. 

Under  a  soft,  complaisant,  and  insinuating  manner,  Mrs. 
Benson  concealed  the  most  inflexible  will — a  will  that  yielded 
to  no  obstacles,  and  scrupled  at  no  means  in  attaining  her 
ends,  so  long  as  she  could  conceal  them  from  the  eyes  of  the 
world.    She  was  ever  ready  and  first,  to  subscribe  to  all  the 
fashionable  charities  and  popular  societies  of  the  day  ;  to  do 
anything,  in  short,  that  could  tend  to  place  her  and  her 
daughter  in  the  first  rank  of  gigmanity  ;  while  all  her  house- 
hold operations  which  lay  behind  the  curtain,  were  conducted 
with  all  the  stint  of  the  most  penurious  retrenchment.  In 
his  family  Mr.  Benson  was  a  complete  nonentity.  In 
more  ways  than  one,  his  wife  made  him  feel  that  she  was 
indeed  his  better  half.  Julia  was  a  pretty,  good-natured  girl, 
with  a  fair  share  of  intelligence.    She  would  have  made  an 
interesting  woman  if  her  mother  had  not  been  constantly  in- 
stilling into  her  mind  the  lessons  of  vanity  and  pride.  In  this 
family — a  lonely  pupil  of  that  stern  teacher,  poverty — lived 
Lucy  Maynard.    Ay,  lived — in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word 
— for  the  pure  heart  and  earnest  soul,  like  a  fair  flower  strug 
gling  for  the  blessed  sunlight,  amid  the  weeds  which  sur 
round  it,  will  ever  stretch  upward  toward  the  great  Father 
of  Light,  even  when  crushed  beneath  those  rank  weeds,  pride 
and  disdain.    Yes  !  even  in  the  family  of  lawyer  Benson, 
Lucy  lived.    Two  years  after  Charles  Stanton's  departure 
for  the  West,  she  was  rendered  doubly  an  orphan  by  the 
death  of  aunt  Esther.    Before  her  death,  aunt  Esther  made 


282 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


every  provision  in  her  power  to  screen  her  beloved  charge 
from  want :  and.  after  commending  her  warmly  to  the  care 
of  her  uncle,  a  brother  of  Captain  Maynard,  who  resided  in 

D  ,  Massachusetts,  and  much  more  strongly,  and  with 

far  firmer  faith,  to  the  care  of  the  Father  of  the  fatherless, 
she  slept  the  last  sleep,  and  was  laid  to  rest  by  the  side  of 
her  sister. 

That  was  a  sorrowful  day  for  poor  Lucy  when  the  earth 
closed  over  that  dear  face  and  kind  heart  with  which  had 
been  her  home  so  long,  when  she  found  herself  alone  !  She 
heeded  not  the  setting  sun  that  night,  as  in  her  utter  loneli- 
ness she  knelt  between  the  two  graves,  and  passionately 
wept.  At  length  a  hand  was  laid  gently  on  her  shoulder — 
"the  old  pastor  stood  by  her.  He  assisted  her  to  rise,  and  led 
her  quietly,  without  speaking,  to  his  own  house.  The  first 
burst  of  grief  was  over,  and  she  grew  calm,  for  her  soul  wras 
too  clear  and  strong  for  despair. 

Her  uncle,  John  Maynard,  received  the  orphan  kindly  ; 
and  both  he  and  his  wife  employed  all  kind  and  gentle  atten- 
tions to  render  her  happy.  And  she  was  happy— happy  to 
repay  their  kindness,  in  some  measure,  by  her  care  for  their 
young  children.  If,  when  busy  with  memories  of  her  dear 
aunt  Esther,  and  the  days  of  her  childhood  and  early  youth, 
thought,  wandering  to  Charles  Stanton,  would  sometimes 
cause  the  work  to  drop  from  her  hand,  and  the  tear  to  fill 
her  eyes ;  she  was  not  unhappy,  but  fervently  thanked  God 
that  the  bright  beams  of  his  mercy  still  rested  on  her  path. 
She  had  resided  with  her  uncle  about  a  year,  when  sudden 
reverses  reduced  him  from  comparative  affluence  to  poverty. 
But  John  Maynard  was  not  of  a  disposition  to  sit  down  in 
despair  without  an  effort,  or  appeal  to  the  sympathy  of  others, 
or  complain  of  fate.  Nor  did  his  family  hang  upon  him  like 
a  mill-stone.  With  sunny  faces  and  theerful  hearts,  from 
the  oldest  down  to  wee  Jamie,  the  youngest,  each  felt  strong 
to  aid  in  retrieving  their  father's  fallen  fortunes,  Lucy,  un- 
willing to  remain  dependent  on  her  friends  in  this  change  of 
circumstances,  entreated  permission  to  leave  them  and  learn 
some  trade,  by  which  she  might  gain  a  livelihood.    But  her 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


283 


gentle  manners  and  kind  heart  had  won  their  warmest  affec- 
tion. They  were  not  willing  to  part  with  her,  and  gladly 
would  have  persuaded  her  to  share  their  humble  fortunes  in 
the  western  world,  to  which  they  had  decided  to  remove. 
But  Lucy,  aware  of  the  rigid  economy  they  would  be  com- 
pelled to  practise,  persisted  in  her  entreaties  until  at  last  they 
consented,  and  procured  her  a  situation  with  Mrs.  Shirley, 
the  most  fashionable  milliner  in  S  . 

And  now  poor  Lucy  is  indeed  left  alone,  wearing  away 
her  life  as  a  milliner's  apprentice,  with  not  one  kind  familiar 
face  near  her.  Every  day  she  must  devote  the  usual  num- 
ber of  hours  to  her  trade  ;  and  besides  this,  like  many  a  poor 
girl,  she  must  work  for  her  board,  and  this  is  her  position  in 
lawyer  Benson's  family.  Mrs.  Benson  was  very  willing  to 
give  her  board  for  her  services  when  she  was  not  in  the  shop, 
as  it  saved  the  expense  of  one  servant.  She  was  a  consum- 
mate mistress  of  the  art  of  getting  the  greatest  possible  amount 
of  work  out  of  all  those  who  had  the  fortune  or  misfortune 
to  serve  her.  Poor  Lucy  bitterly  felt  the  difference  between 
the  kindness  of  her  relatives,  and  the  cold,  unsympathizing 
manners  of  the  Bensons.  Uncomplaining,  she  ministered  to 
the  wants  of  the  thoughtless,  though  not  unreally  kind  Julia. 
With  unwearied  diligence  she  performed  all  those  duties 
of  the  household  which  it  pleased  Mrs.  Benson  to  term 
"  chores ;"  and  many  a  poor  girl  will  bear  witness  to  our 
truth  when  we  say  that  these  "  chores"  include  much  of  the 
heaviest  and  most  laborious  portion  of  the  housework. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Mrs.  Benson  had  one  child,  a  son, 
many  years  younger  than  Julia,  who  was  afflicted  with  a 
disease  of  the  spine,  and  to  whom  Lucy's  sweet  voice  and 
winning  manners  were  peculiarly  attractive.  An  invalid 
almost  from  his  birth,  Edward  was  peevish  and  fretful ;  but 
his  eye  always  brightened  when  he  heard  her  step  on  the 
stairs  which  led  to  his  room,  as,  weary  with  the  labors  of 
the  day,  she  came  to  bring  his  supper  and  prepare  his  drink 
for  the  night.  Lucy  soon  began  to  feel  that  here  was  some- 
thing to  love  ;  and  when  her  mistress  reminded  her.  as  she 
not  unfrequently  did,  of  her  dependent  situation,  and  talked 


284 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


of  her  great  benevolence  in  keeping  her  merel  /  for  doing  a 
"  few  chores,"  though  her  heart  swelled  and  her  eyes  filled, 
she  felt  that  there  was  one  whose  joyous  childhood  was  ren- 
dered brighter  and  happier  by  her  existence,  and  her  heart 
grew  strong.  Yet  Lucy  was  not  without  her  moments  of — 
we  were  about  to  say  unalloyed  happiness.  The  apprentice 
girl  had  not  forgotten  the  lessons  of  the  old  pastor  ;  and  it 
was  a  joyful  moment  for  her  when,  after  the  last  chore  of 
the  day  was  done,  her  mistress  bade  her  go  and  sit  by  Ed- 
ward until  he  fell  asleep.  Then,  though  the  boy  would 
sometimes  insist  on  having  the  story  of  Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood  related  twice  over,  and  be  more  than  usually  anxious 
to  know  how  a  wolf  could  talk — yet  he  was  usually  reason- 
able, and  many  sweet  hours  did  Lucy  spend  with  her  books, 
with  which,  thanks  to  Caroline  Hawley  and  her  father,  she 
was  well-supplied — storing  her  mind  with  rich  lessons,  freely 
communing  with  the  noblest  and  best  of  earth. 

One  morning,  as  Lucy  was  removing  the  breakfast  things 
from  the  table,  Mrs.  Benson  and  Julia  were  discussing  a 
brilliant  party  which  they  had  attended  the  evening  previous, 
at  the  house  of  'Squire  Lee,  a  rival  attorney. 

"  Was  there  anything  equal  to  the  pride  and  vanity  of 
the  Lees  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Benson.  "Their  French  China ! 
nothing  but  earthen,  I  dare  say." 

"  But,  ma,  their  dessert  service  is  really  silver.  I  heard 
Mrs.  Seward  say  so." 

"  Yes  !  child,  as  1  said  before,  there  is  nothing  like  their 
extravagance.  But  Mrs.  Lee,  with  all  her  silver  plate,  will 
never  be  anything  more  than  Fanny  Dagget,  the  dress-maker. 
She  retains  even  now,  the  habit  of  feeling  for  her  scissors 
when  talking.  But,  Julia,  who  was  that  handsome  young 
man  that  came  in  so  late  with  Dr.  Seward?  He  must  be 
somebody,  if  one  may  judge  from  the  attentions  shown  him 
by  Mrs.  Weldon  and  the  Sewards." 

"  O  !  that  was  Dr.  Stanton.  He  and  his  uncle  arrived 
at  the  hotel  yesterday  from  New- York.  Mary  Seward  told 
me  that  her  family  and  the  Lees  are  old  friends  of  his  father, 
and  that  this  is  his  native  place." 


\ 

LUCY    MAYNARD.  285 

"Why  it  mast  be  Charles  Stanton,  the  son  of  Henry  Stan- 
ton, who  died  but  heaven  help  the  girl,"  she  cried,  spring- 
ing to  the  table  in  time  to  catch  part  of  the  dishes  which 
the  sound  of  that  long-cherished  name  had  caused  Lucy  to 
drop,  as  she  was  about  to  place  them  on  the  waiter — "  was 
there  ever  such  carelessness  ?  Two  plates  and  three  cups 
broken  !  my  new  breakfast  set  entirely  ruined  !  I  don't  be- 
lieve there  is  another  as  careless  girl  in  town.  There,  take 
the  fragments  and  waiter,  and  see  if  you  can  carry  them  to 
the  kitchen  without  dropping  them." 

"Mother  !"  said  Julia,  as  the  frightened  girl  left  the  room, 
"Lucy  is  very  pale  ;  I  don't  think  she  is  well." 

"She  ought  to  look  pale.  Three  of  my  new  cofFee-pots 
and  two  plates  broken  into  inch  pieces !  How  many  more 
cracked  I  don't  know." 

"Bat  you  know,  ma.  since  Edward  has  been  worse  she  is 
often  obliged  to  get  up  in  the  night,  to  wait  on  him.  He  told 
me  this  morning  that  she  was  up  with  him  the  greater  part 
of  last  night." 

"  He  told  me  the  same.  But  I  keep  her  to  wait  on  him. 
Edward  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  her ;  and  after  all,  she 
is  as  good  as  most  girls.  Servants  are  always  more  plague 
than  profit.  Bat  who  did  you  say  accompanied  Charles 
Stanton  ?" 

"  His  uncle,  Mr.  Gordon,  from  the  West." 

"  Ah,  now  I  remember,  his  mother  was  a  Gordon,  and  had 
a  Gordon  at  the  West,  whose  brother  is  said  to  be  wealthy. 
We  must  pay  them  some  attention.  If  Edward  gets  no  bet- 
ter I  will  ask  Dr.  Seward  to  call  in  his  young  friend  to  con- 
sult withfhim." 

"  Do,  ma,  I  should  like  very  much  to  be  acquainted  with 
him." 

Bat  let  us  look  into  the  kitchen,  where  poor  Lucy  is  almost 
breathless  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  Charles  Stanton's 
return.  It  has  brought  back  to  the  care-worn  face  mach  of 
the  changeful  beauty  of  earlier  days,  and  she  sits  forgetful 
of  the  broken  China— of  her  mistress's  displeasure — of  all 
save  the  happy  days  passed  in  her  own  sweet  home  at  Lis- 


286 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


ton.  "  He  has  returned  !  I  knew  he  would  come  back  !" 
she  murmured  to  herself,  when  the  well  known  step  of  Mrs. 
Benson  roused  her  to  a  consciousness  of  her  situation.  In 
that  short,  sweet  dream,  she  had  forgotten  all  but  the  past. 
She  took  no  account  of  the  change  in  their  relative  positions 
in  society.  For  the  moment  she  even  forgot  that,  as  she  had 
reason  to  suppose,  Charles  himself  no  longer  thought  of  her 
as  formerly.  But  now  her  cheek  blanched  and  her  lip 
quivered  with  sudden  thoughts  of  the  vast  distance  by  which 
the  forms  of  society  separated  them. 

Once  Lucy's  mind  could  not  have  entertained  such 
thoughts  ;  but  she  had.  of  late,  heard  the  subject  so  often 
discussed — had  heard  Mrs.  Benson  and  her  friends  too  often 
speak  of  rank  in  society,  and  of  the  exclusiveness  of  "  their 
circle,"  not  to  be  aware  that  she,  Mrs.  Benson's  servant,  was 
too  far  from  Dr.  Stanton  to  think  of  intercourse  with  him. 

True,  Charles's  letters,  which  had  never  failed  during 
aunt  Esther's  life,  were  full  of  kind  remembrances  of  her,  in 
which  she  was  always  connected  with  his  plans  for  the 
future.  And  even  during  her  residence  with  her  uncle,  their 
correspondence  had  continued.  But  a  short  time  after  her 
uncle's  failure  she  had  written  to  Charles,  informing  him  of 
her  design  to  learn  a  trade.  To  this  letter  she  received  no 
reply.  Anxiously  had  she  hoped  and  waited  for  an  answer, 
but  none  came.  Slowly  and  painfully  the  conviction  forced 
itself  on  her  mind  that  he  wished  to  forget  her.  Charles  had 
been  the  ideal  of  all  her  dreams.  Unconsciously  his  name 
ever  trembled  on  her  lips,  when,  in  the  moment  devoted  to 
her  books,  some  new  thought,  beautiful  in  its  purity  and 
truth,  gladdened  her  heart  and  shed  light  over  the  dim  vista 
of  the  future.  Unconsciously  the  thought  of  Charles's  ap- 
probation had  stimulated  her  to  improve  every  moment,  to 
make  every  possible  exertion  for  a  high  degree  of  cultivation. 
And  now  he  had  returned — the  beautiful  dream  had  vanished 
— faded  before  the  cold,  false,  heartless  forms  of  society  ! 

Oh !  those  only  who  have  dreamed,  hoped,  longed,  and 
lived  for  such  an  ideal  can  understand  the  bitterness  of  the 


LUCY    MAYNARD.  287 

disappointment  when,  just  at  the  moment  of  realization,  we 
find  ourselves  separated  from  it  by  the  inexorable  hand  of 
destiny  ! 

But  Lucy's  experience  had  taught  her  more  than  one  ot 
the  great  lessons  of  life.  She  now  strove  to  school  herself  to 
submission,  and  to  fulfil  with  patient  endurance  all  the 
duties  of  her  station.  Early  in  the  ensuing  spring  the  term 
of  her  apprenticeship  would  expire  ;  and  as  Mrs.  Shirley 
wished  to  retain  her  in  her  employment,  she  looked  forward 
with  pleasure  to  the  time  when  the  avails  of  her  labor  would 
render  her  independent,  at  least,  of  Mrs.  Benson. 

A  few  days  after  this,  lawyer  Benson  informed  his  wife 
that  Mr.  Gordon  had  purchased  part  of  the  old  Stanton 
estate,  and  that  he  was  now  busy  furnishing  the  new  cottage 
on  the  hill.  This  was  true.  Mr.  Gordon,  wishing  to  gratify 
his  nephew/  and  disliking  the  noise  and  bustle  of  a  hotel,  on 
finding  part  of  the  paternal  estate  for  sale,  immediately  be- 
came the  purchaser,  and  in  a  few  weeks  they  were  enjoying 
all  the  quiet  and  comfort  of  a  New-England  home. 

As  rumor  had  represented  Mr.  Gordon  to  be  far  more 
wealthy  than  he  really  was,  their  establishment  in  the  place 
was  an  event  of  the  first  importance  to  the  i:  exclusives." 
They  immediately  received  all  sorts  of  attention  from  the 
many,  and  more  gradually  found  some  who  could  appreciate 
their  worth  and  become  sincerely  their  friends.  Mrs.  Ben- 
son was  not  the  only  managing  mamma  to  whom  Charles, 
especially,  became  an  object  of  the  highest  consideration. 

The  warm  recommendations  of  Dr.  Seward  soon  procured 
for  Charles  quite  an  extensive  practice.  Little  Edward,  who 
daily  grew  worse,  was  almost  entirely  given  over  to  his  care, 
Dr.  Seward  only  looking  in  occasionally.  As  Charles's  calls 
were  always  made  during  those  hours  when  Lucy  was  at 
the  shop,  she  never  met  him  ;  and  although  she  frequently 
heard  Mrs.  Benson  and  her  daughter  mention  his  name,  and 
sound  his  praises,  yet  with  the  sensitiveness  of  one  who 
keenly  felt  the  injustice  and  falseness  of  those  conventional 
laws  of  society  which  oppressed  her,  and  which  now  regu- 


288 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


lated  the  character  of  Charles,  as  she  had  such  painful  reason 
to  believe,  she  avoided  all  that  could  lead  to  a  discovery  of 
her  early  connection  with  him. 

Meanwhile  rumor  began  to  prophecy,  in  whispers,  that  the 
beautiful  cottage  on  the  hill  would  soon  have  a  mistress  in 
Miss  Julia.  Mrs.  Benson  managed — Charles  paid  Julia 
some  attentions,  which  gave  rise  to  banter  on  the  part  of  her 
young  friends ;  and  the  manner  in  which  Mrs.  Benson  re- 
plied to  such  remarks  certainly  was  not  calculated  to  silence 
them.  Rumor  continued  to  whisper,  louder  and  louder,  un- 
til the  matter  was  spoken  of  as  a  thing  probably  settled. 
Lucy  heard  all  this  in  silence,  and  sought  refuge  from  all 
painful  thoughts  in  her  ministry  of  love  to  Edward. 

As  he  grew  worse  he  clung  to  her  with  increasing  fond- 
ness, and  at  length  Mrs.  Benson  procured  another  to  take 
her  place  in  the  kitchen,  that  all  her  moments  of  leisure  from 
the  shop  might  be  devoted  exclusively  to  the  little  sufferer 
who  was  evidently  near  death.  One  day,  toward  the  lasf 
of  February,  Dr.  Stanton  was  detained  from  calling  at  his 
ordinary  hour,  and  drove  to  the  door  much  later  than 
usual.  Finding  Mrs.  Benson  engaged  with  company,  he 
followed  the  servant  directly  to  Edward's  room.  He  found 
his  patient  asleep.  After  feeling  his  pulse  and  arranging 
some  powders,  he  turned  to  the  nurse,  who  sat  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  almost  wholly  concealed  by  its  ample  drapery,  and 
commenced  giving  directions.  But  suddenly  interrupting 
himself,  he  inquired  how  long  the  boy  had  slept.  The  answej 
was  inaudible. 

"  How  long  did  you  say,  nurse  ?"  he  asked  again. 

"  About  half  an  hour,"  was  the  answer,  in  low,  tremulous 
tones,  which  thrilled  through  his  own  soul. 

Charles  sprang  to  her  side,  and  grasping  her  arm,  drew 
her  to  the  light,  exclaiming — "  It  is  !  it  must  be  Lucy  May- 
nard — my  own  Lucy  !  Speak  again  !  For  God's  sake,  speak 
again  !" 

Oh  !  there  are  moments  when  the  whole  soul  comes  forth 
to  brood  on  the  face !  Words  could  not  have  brought  so 
sweet  an  assurance  to  his  heart  as  did  one  glance  of  those 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


289 


deep  blue  eyes,  as  he  pressed  her  half-fainting  to  his  bosom. 

"And  you  have  been  near  me  so  long,"  he  continued — 
:'  even  in  this  house,  and  I  have  not  known  it !  Lucy  !  was 
this  quite  right?" 

"  I  have  wronged  you,  Charles.  As  you  did  not  answer 
my  letter,  informing  you  of  the  change  in  my  circumstances. 
I  thought  you  had  changed.  Forgive  me,  Charles,  but  I 
have  been  made  to  feel,  somewhat  keenly,  the  disdain  which 
those  of  your  social  rank  and  advantages  feel  authorized  to 
bestow  on  such  as  occupy  my  position.  Oh  !  if  you  only 
knew  what  I  have  suffered,  in  thinking  that  you,  too,  were 
influenced  by  this  falseness  of  society — that  you,  too,  could 
neglect  me,  because  of  my  friendless  poverty — you  would 
forgive  me." 

I  changed  !  I  disdain  you  !  Society  create  a  distance 
between  you  and  me  !  Oh  !  how  could  you  mistake  me 
thus?  You  must  indeed  have  learned  some  bitter  lessons, 
my  poor  Lucy,  or  you  could  not  have  wronged  me  so !" 

11  But  my  letter,  Charles,  why  did  you  not  answer  my  let- 
ter?" 

"  Because,  dearest  Lucy,  I  never  received  it.  I  was  a  long 
time  traveling  with  my  uncle,  in  various  parts  of  the  country, 
before  we  came  here,  and  must  have  left  Cincinnati  before  it 
arrived  there.  Before  I  came  here,  I  visited  Liston.  Our 
kind  friend,  the  old  pastor,  had  been  dead  nearly  a  year.  In 
answer  to  my  inquiries  I  was  informed  that  you  still  resided 

in  D  ,  with  your  uncle.    I  hastened  to  D  ,  and  was 

there  told,  that  you  accompanied  your  uncle's  family  to  Iowa. 
Wearied  and  dispirited,  I  rejoined  my  uncle,  whose  business 
had  detained  him  in  New- York.  We  came  here,  as  it  was 
a  favorite  plan  of  my  uncle  to  re-purchase,  if  possible,  a  part 
of  my  father's  estate.  But  I  had  resolved  to  visit  Iowa  in 
the  spring,  to  find  you  if  possible,  and  ascertain  whether  the 
sweet  play-mate  of  my  youth  would  not  sustain  to  me  a  still 
nearer  and  dearer  relation." 

"  But  Julia  " 

"  Julia  neither  is,  has  been,  nor  can  be  to  me  anything 
more  than  a  lively,  good-tempered  girl,  spoiled  by  the  over- 


I 


290  LUCY  MAYNARD. 

management  of  her  mother.  But  first  of  all— even  before 
you  answer  the  question  which  interests  me  so  deeply — 
allow  me  to  provide  you  a  more  suitable  home." 

Lucy  pointed  to  the  sleeping  boy.  "  No  !  Charles,"  she 
said,  " 1  cannot  leave  him  now.  He  will  allow  no  one  else 
to  wait  on  him.  You  say  he  has  but  a  few  days  to  live. 
Let  me,  at  least,  soothe  his  last  hours,  for  he  has  ever  loved 
me." 

"  Let  it  be  so,  then  ;  and  now  good  night." 

Lucy's  unwearied  ministry  of  love  was  soon  over.  One 
week  after  this  meeting,  Edward  was  in  his  grave. 

"But  were  they  married  ?  were  they  married?"  the  fair 
girls  ask.  Indeed  they  were.  And,  if  one  may  judge  from 
the  animated  conversation  going  on  in  Mrs.  Benson's  parlor, 
their  marriage  has  caused  no  small  stir  among  the  exclusives. 

"  An  old  acquaintance,  did  you  say,  Mrs.  Benson  ?"  ex- 
claims Mrs.  Eliott,  her  most  intimate  friend  ;  old  acquaint- 
ances are  they  ?  And  did  you  never  suspect  it  ?  Did  the 
girl  never  mention  it  ?" 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  make  myself  either  the  compan- 
ion or  confidant  of  my  servants,  Mrs.  Elliott,"  was  the  digni- 
fied answer. 

"  But  do  tell  us,  Julia,  what  sort  of  creature  is  this  new 
edition  of  Cinderella  ?    Is  she  beautiful  V' 

"  Oh  !  pray  don't  come  to  me  for  a  catalogue  of  her  charms  ! 
I  really  cannot  tell  whether  her  eyes  are  blue,  black,  or 
grey.    You  have  seen  her  a  thousand  times." 

"  Yes,  no  doubt ; — but  one  never  thinks  of  looking  at  a 
servant.  Still,  she  must  be  superior  to  most  of  her  class,  for 
she  has  interested  Dr.  Stanton,  and  it  is  acknowledged  that 
he  is  a  man  of  taste." 

il  Yes,  yes,"  says  Mrs.  Benson,  in  reply  to  the  last  part  of 
Mrs.  Elliott's  remark,  "  and  it  is  to  be  regrettedthatone  with 
his  talents  and  refinement,  should  contract  such  a  mesalliance. 
Of  course,  he  cannot  retain  his  position  in  society — at  least 
not  here.  We,  who  have  shown  him  some  attention  as  the 
descendant  of  the  old  Stanton  family,  shall  now  be  obliged 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


291 


to  drop  him.    I  wonder  how  he  will  bear  tl  ie  changed  man- 
ners of  Mrs.  Weldon  and  the  Sewards." 

"  Then  you  will  not  call  on  the  bride  ?" 

"  No,  indeed.  I  shall  not  do  myself  that  honor,  unless  it  be 
to  order  a  new  bonnet." 

"  Why,  where  can  the  Seward's  be  going  ?"  ex<  laims  Julia, 
from  the  window—"  there  are  Mrs.  Seward,  Mary,  and  the 
Weldons,  in  the  carriage." 

"  They  are  probably  going  to  talk  over  this  queer  affair 
with  the  Lees,"  replied  her  mother. 

The  two  elder  ladies  continued  their  discussion  of  this 
"  queer  affair,"  finding  no  terms  adequate  to  express  their 
wonder  at  the  infatuation  of  Charles  Stanton,  until  another 
exclamation  from  Julia,  who  had  remained  at  the  window, 
watching  the  carriage,  drew  them  both  to  her  side. 

"  Look,  ma  !  look,  Mrs.  Elliott I  The  carriage  has  stopped 
at  the  cottage." 

"  Sure  enough,  Mrs.  Benson,"  adds  her  friend,  i:  and  there- 
is  Dr.  Stanton  receiving  them  from  the  carriage.  Well,  this 
is  a  strange  movement !  But  if  the  Weldons  condescend  to 
call  on  them,  no  one  else  can  refuse." 

"  Certainly,  this  alters  the  case,"  replies  Mrs.  Benson. 
"  And  now  I  think  of  it,  perhaps  it  is  better  that  Julia  and  I 
should  call  likewise,  as  there  has  been  some  little  talk  about 
some  slight  attentions  Dr.  Stanton  paid  her.  If  we  refuse  to 
call,  people  may  indulge  themselves  in  ill-natured  remarks." 

That  afternoon  the  bridal  pair  received  the  congratulations 
of  Mrs.  Benson  and  Miss  Julia.  These  visitors  felt  some 
awkward  embarrassment  on  the  way,  which  Lucy's  calm 
and  dignified  self-respect,  blended,  as  it  was,  with  the  most 
graceful  politeness,  did  not  contribute  to  lessen  on  their  arri- 
val. But  the  Seward's  have  returned ;  let  us  step  over,  for 
a  moment,  and  hear  them." 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Seward."  says  Mrs.  Weldon, 
'  I  never  in  my  life  paid  my  congratulations,  on  an  occasion 
like  this,  with  such  heart-felt  pleasure.  I  feared,  indeed,  that 
our  young  friend's  mind  had  been  misled  by  some  romantic 


292 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


idea  of  obligation  to  one  who  stood  in  such  close  connection 
with  his  boyish  associations.  But  she  is  indeed  worthy  of 
him.  She  is  a  delightful  creature.  I  could  hardly  refrain 
from  calling  her  an  angel  myself." 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Seward,  "  he  was  not  one  to  deceive 
himself  in  such  a  matter.  His  mind  is  too  clear ; — his  ideal 
too  pure,  too  perfect,  to  allow  any  false  views  to  guide  his 
conduct  in  so  important  an  affair  as  this.  The  question  with 
him  was,  not  whether  she  had  wealth,  station,  or  beauty,  but 
whether  she  could  speak  to  his  heart,  sympathize  with  his 
life  of  thought,  and  sustain  to  his  soul  that  beautiful  relation. 
I  cannot  sufficiently  admire  his  independence  of  mind,  in  fol- 
lowing out  his  own  convictions  in  this  case,  though  some  of 
his  acquaintance  will  censure  him  severely." 

"  But,  aunt  Seward,"  exclaims  Grace  Weldon,  "  his  wife 
is  beautiful,  and  her  manners  altogether  charming  and  lady- 
like. How  quietly  and  gracefully  she  received  our  congratu- 
lations. She  was  really  beautiful  in  her  simple,  white  dress 
—  was  she  not,  Mary  !" 

':  Oh,  yes!  Grace,  and  the  strangest  thing  of  all  is,  that 
we  have  never  noticed  her  before,  when  she  has  lived  so 
long  with  Mrs.  Benson,  only  just  across  the  way." 

"Ah!  my  daughter,  I  fear  that  we.  and  a  great  many 
others  in  the  world,  are  ever  looking  too  much  abroad  or 
above  us,  for  the  good  and  beautiful  ;  and  in  so  doing  miss 
diamonds  that  lie  in  the  dust  at  her  feet — neglect  many  of 
the  noblest  and  best  of  earth,  leaving  them  to  be  crushed  be- 
neath the  stern  hand  of  poverty — or,  what  is  worse,  to  pass 
through  life  without  kindness  or  sympathy.  The  pride  of 
fashionable  life  makes  us  too  blind  and  cold  to  see  and  love 
others  as  we  ought." 

And  now,  dear  reader,  if  you  are  still  anxious  or  curious, 
walk  with  me,  in  this  soft  June  moonlight,  to  the  beautiful 
cottage  on  the  hill,  and  we  will  see  them  in  their  home.  We 
know  all  about  them.  They  have  no  secrets  from  us.  There- 
fore we  may  be  as  lawless  as  fairies,  and  peep  in  at  the  win- 
dow. Take  care  !  Do  not  be  so  hasty,  and  mind  where  you 
step,  or  you  will  crush  all  the  violets  and  sweet  clover.  Now 


LUCY  MAYNARD. 


293 


push  away  this  honey-suckle,  and  look  into  the  room.  "  How 
happy  she  seems  !"  did  you  say?  Ay,  she  is  indeed  happy  ! 
See  that  white-headed  old  man  !    It  is  Mr.  Gordon. 

How  he  raises  his  eyes  from  the  book,  and  gazes  at  her 
through  the  open  door  of  the  library,  with  an  expression  that 
seems  to  say,  t:  God  bless  her  !"  Hark  !  there  are  footsteps 
in  the  passage  !  How  eagerly  she  starts  and  springs  to  the 
door,  just  in  time  to  be  caught  in  the  arms  of  her  husband, 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  that  it  is  your  birth-day,  Lucy,"  he 
says.  "  In  the  happy  days  at  Liston,  aunt  Esther  used  to 
give  us  a  kiss  and  a  whipping.  Which  do  you  think  you 
deserve  V 

«  Why,  Charles,  if  I  remember  rightly,  it  was  I  who  re- 
ceived the  kiss,  and  you  the  whipping." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  I  believe  you  are  half  right.  But  I  have  brought 
you  something  surpassingly  beautiful :  the  poems  of  one 
whose  poetic  vision  of  divine  things,  and  whose  deep,  serene, 
entrancing  utterance  of  what  is  granted  to  that  vision,  are 
unrivalled  among  the  rising  generation  of  poets — one  who,  if 
his  mature  years  do  not  belie  his  early  promise,  will  become 
the  poet  and  prophet  of  his  age.  Read  me  one  of  those  son- 
nets, dearest." 

Lucy  took  the  book,  and  began,  in  an  exquisitely  modu- 
lated voice,  one  of  those  beautiful  sonnets. 
'    As  she  read  the  closing  lines, 

"I  dare  not  say  how  much  thou  art  to  me, 
Even  to  myself — and,  oh  !  much  less  to  thee  !" 

there  was  so  much  earnest  truth  and  deep  tenderness  in  the 
glance  with  which  she  met  his  eye,  that  Charles  felt  assured, 
as  he  involuntarily  caught  her  to  his  bosom,  that  he  held  in 
his  embrace 

"  Earth's  noblest  thing, 
A  woman  perfected." 


The  sweetest  of  all  life  is  that  which  we  live  in  the  good 
f  others. 


TO  MY  SPIRIT  LOVE. 


I  love  you — 'tis  the  simplest  way 

The  thing  I  feel  to  tell ; 
Yet  if  I  told  it  all  the  day, 

You'd  never  guess  how  well. 
You  are  my  comfort  and  my  light — 

My  very  life  you  seem ; 
I  think  of  you  all  day  ;  all  night 

'Tis  but  of  you  I  dream. 

There's  pleasure  in  the  lightest  word 

That  you  can  speak  to  me ; 
My  soul  is  like  the  iEolian's  chord, 

And  vibrates  still  to  thee. 
I  never  read  the  love-song  yet, 

So  thrilling,  fond,  or  true, 
But  in  my  own  heart  1  have  met 

Some  kinder  thought  for  you. 

I  bless  the  shadows  of  your  face, 

The  light  upon  your  hair — 
I  like  for  hours  to  sit  and  trace 

The  passing  changes  there  : 
I  love  to  hear  your  voice's  tone, 

Although  you  should  not  say 
A  single  word  to  dream  upon 

When  that  has  died  away. 

Oh  !  you  are  kindly  as  the  beam 
That  warms  where'er  it  plays, 

And  you  are  gentle  as  a  dream 
Of  happy  future  days — 

And  you  are  strong  to  do  the  right, 
And  swift  the  wrong  to  flee — 

And  if  you  were  not  half  so  bright, 
You're  all  the  world  to  me 


THE    BLIND  MOTHER. 


Say,  shall  I  never  see  thy  face,  my  child  ? 
My  heart  is  full  of  feelings  strange  and  wild  : 
A  mother's  hopes  and  heartfelt  joys  are  mine, 
My  soul  is  filled  with  gushings  half  divine ; 
And  never  more,  my  child,  am  I  alone, 
Since  thy  young  heart  doth  echo  to  mine  own. 

But  J  shall  never  see  thee  ?  can  it  be, 
That  all  may  gaze,  my  precious  hoy,  on  thee, 
And  yet  the  heart  that  loves  thee  most,  forego 
The  dearest  pleasure  other  mother's  know  1 
This,  this  is  an  anguish — agony  refined  ! 
Oh !  God,  forgive  me  ! — Baby,  I  am  blind ! 

Yes,  yes — I  never,  never  knew  before, 
The  depth  of  my  affliction — oh,  for  power, 
For  one  short  thrilling  moment,  child,  to  gaze 
On  thy  sweet  tiny  face,  that  others  praise ; 
And  yet  I  must  not  murmur — God  is  kind — 
But  this  is  darkness — now  I  feel  I'm  blind  ! 

Nay,  do  not  start,  my  child,  it  was  a  tear 
That  wet  thy  brow ;  thy  mother,  boy,  is  here ; 
And  though  I  may  not  see  thee,  yet  I  feel 
Thy  velvet  cheek  against  my  bosom  steal ; 
And  none  can  harm  thee  there,  nor  hand  unkind 
Shall  touch  my  darling,  even  though  I'm  blind ! 

List — list — it  is  thy  father's  step  I  hear; 

Now  let  me  smooth  thy  brow  ;  press  back  the  tear, 

He  shall  not  find  me  weeping,  when  so  bless'd 

With  thee,  my  darling,  cradled  on  my  breast; 

But,  could  I  only  see  thee  !    Yet,  God's  will 

Be  done !    Peace,  throbbing  heart,  be  still ! 


296 


SPIRITUAL  LOVE. 


We  are  alone  again,  he  never  guessed 
What  yearning  anguish  filled  thy  mother's  breast, 
When  he  did  praise  thy  features  half  defined, 
He  quite  forgot  that  his  young  wife  was  blind  ! 
And  yet,  when  his  fond  arm  was  round  us  thrown, 
His  lip  half  trembled  when  it  met  my  own. 

Oh,  should  he  e'er  repent  him  he  hath  wed 
A  being  burthened  with  a  woe  so  dread  : 
Should  he  grow  tired  of  one  so  frail  and  weak, 
My  heart,  in  that  dark  hour,  would  joy  to  break; 
Or  should  his  lip  grow  cold,  his  hand  unkind, 
God  help  me,  baby,  then  indeed  I'm  blind  ! 

But  shall  I  never  see  thee?    Yes,  my  boy, 
Some  future  hour  my  heart  shall  know  that  joy; 
It  may  not  be  on  earth,  but  in  the  skies, 
I  yet  shall  gaze,  my  darling,  in  thine  eyes; 
So  will  I  patient  be,  for  God  is  kind, 
For  in  yon  Heaven  there  are  no  blind ! 


SPIRITUAL  LOVE. 


There  is  a  love!  'tis  not  the  wandering  fire 

That  must  be  fed  on  folly,  or  expire  ; 

Gleam  of  polluted  hearts,  the  meteor  ray 

That  fades  as  rises  Reason's  nobler  day  ; 

But  passion  made  essential,  holy,  bright, 

Like  the  raised  dead,  our  dust  transformed  to  light 

'Tis  not  the  cold  Romance's  ecstacy, 

The  flame  new-lit  at  every  passing  eye: 

But  the  high  impulse  that  the  stately  soul 

Feels  slow  engross  it,  but  engross  it  whole  ; 

Yet  seeks  it  not,  nay  turns  with  stern  disdain 

On  its  own  weakness  that  can  wear  a  chain  ; 

Still  wrestling  with  the  angel,  till  its  pride 

Feels  all  the  strength  departed  from  its  side. 


Ban-mateT 


JHotI)*r0  cmtr  HDaugljters  of  %  Bible. 


MARTHA. 


BY  REV.   S.  D.  BURCHARD. 


The  mention  of  places  hallowed  in  Scripture  by  the 
miracles  or  presence  of  the  Son  of  God,  calls  up  a  rush  of 
old  and  pleasant  memories.  The  little  town  of  Bethlehem, 
the  brook  Kedron,  the  waters  of  the  Jordan,  the  lake  of  Gen- 
nesaret,  the  mount  of  Olives,  the  garden  of  Gethsemane, 
the  hill  of  Calvary,  can  never  fade  from  the  memory  of  man ; 
and  many  a  pilgrim  will  visit  these  places,  not  because  they 
are  the  home  of  genius  and  art,  not  that  they  surpass  all 
others  in  beauty  of  scenery,  but  that  his  affections  may  be 
softened  and  hallowed  by  the  associations  of  the  past.  Jesus 
was  born  there,  lived  there,  prayed  there,  suffered  there, 
died  there.  This  gives  them  their  chief  interest  and  impor- 
tance. The  obscure  town  of  Bethany  has  been  rescued 
from  oblivion,  because  it  is  associated  with  the  social  kind- 
ness of  Jesus,  with  one  of  his  most  stupendous  miracles,  and 
with  his  ascent  to  glory.  It  was  situated  on  the  eastern 
slope  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  about  two  miles  from  the  city 
of  Jerusalem,  and  was  the  home  of  Martha,  Mary,  and  Laza- 
rus. It  was  a  beautiful  and  retired  spot,  to  which  the  Sa- 
viour, in  the  pauses  of  labor  and  oppressed  with  fatigue,  was 
wont  to  repair.  Here  his  wearied  human  nature  sought 
repose ;  here  his  social  feelings  met  a  kindly  response  ;  here 
he  found  the  home  and  the  heart  of  friendship — a  green 
spot  recovered  from  the  selfishness  of  the  great,  wide  world. 
Grieved,  as  he  often  must  have  been,  at  the  stern  opposition 
of  the  men  he  came  to  save — worn  with  the  toils  and  fatigues 


298 


MARTHA. 


of  his  arduous  mission — weary  with  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  a  pleasure-loving  city,  it  is  no  wonder  that,  at  nightfall, 
he  sought  rest  amid  the  more  rural  scenes  and  social  sym- 
pathies of  Bethany.  Here  he  always  found  a  welcome,  and, 
if  anywhere  on  earth,  he  may  be  said  to  have  had  a  home, 
it  was  in  the  family  of  Martha,  Mary,  and  Lazarus.  These 
three  constituted  the  family  group.  They  had  tasted  of 
sorrow — they  had  mourned  over  the  grave  of  the  loved  and 
the  lost ;  they  were  orphans ;  and  now  their  hearts  were 
linked  to  each  other  in  beautiful  sympathy  and  affection. 
Though  Jews  by  birth  and  education,  and  strongly  attached 
to  Moses  and  the  prophets,  their  hearts  had  been  opened  to 
u  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus."  They  saw  that  the  dispen- 
sation of  rites  and  ceremonies  was  to  give  way  to  a  sublimer 
dispensation ;  that  Moses  was  to  be  superseded  by  Jesus — 
that  the  type  was  realized  in  the  presence  of  the  great  and 
blessed  Antitype.  It  was  therefore  a  pious  family  in  full 
sympathy  with  the  mission  of  Jesus.  Their  whole  history, 
as  recorded  by  the  different  Evangelists,  is  full  proof  of  this. 
Many  and  touching  are  the  incidents  illustrative  of  their  love 
for  the  Son  of  God.  Mary  anointed  his  head  with  precious 
ointment,  bathed  his  feet  with  her  tears,  and  listened,  with 
meekness  and  docility,  to  his  instructions.  Martha  remem- 
bered his  wants,  as  a  man,  and  honored  him  by  more  active 
and  wearisome  service.  Lazarus  was  midway  between  the 
two — the  conservative  party  ;  he  both  sat  at  the  feet  of  Jesus, 
and  served.  He  aided  his  sister  Martha  in  her  toils,  and 
sympathized  in  the  quiet  love  and  docility  of  Mary.  These 
different  developments  of  character  were  the  result  of  natu- 
rally different  temperaments,  yet  neither  proving  the  lack,  of 
devoted  attachment.  Martha,  the  senior  of  the  family,  was 
earnest  and  resolute,  doing  with  her  might  what  her  hands 
found  to  do ;  a  careful  provider,  looking  well  to  the  ways  of 
her  household  ;  sometimes  chafed  with  cares,  and  "  cumbered 
with  much  serving."  She  may  not  have  possessed  the  ami- 
able sweetness  or  patient  meekness  of  her  sister ;  but  in  heroic 
fortitude,  in  womanly  courage,  in  the  elements  of  endurance, 
she  may  have  surpassed  her.    Mary  was  a  gentle  creature, 


MARTHA. 


299 


full  of  love  and  tenderness,  whose  heart  was  unused  lo  care, 
who  would  rather  throw  off  the  toils  and  responsibilities  of 
life,  and  make  duty  consist  in  repose,  in  a  quiet  and  medi- 
tative life.    Had  she  lived  in  the  days  of  the  church's  apos 
tacy,  she  would  not  indeed  have  relinquished  her  faith  in 
Jesus,  but  she  would  have  made  a  beautiful  recluse — a  quiet, 
and  submissive  nun — charmed  with  the  solitudes  of  a  clois- 
ter, and  absorbed  in  the  deep  meditations  of  a  devoutly 
religious  life.    Martha  would  have  been  the  true  sister  of 
charity — active  in  relieving  the  wants  of  the  needy,  preparing 
bread  for  the  hungry  and  clothing  for  the  naked  ;  cumbered 
still  with  much  serving,  but  none  the  less  a  Christian.  Her 
Christian  character  would  have  developed  itself  in  this  way, 
rather  than  in  a  passive  sentimentalism,  which  is  more  beau- 
tiful than  useful,  more  poetic  than  pious.    Piety,  in  its  out- 
ward developments,  takes  its  shape  and  stamp  somewhat 
from  the  characteristics  nature  has  given  us.  Sometimes 
it  is  bold  and  active ;  then  again  it  is  timid  and  retiring : 
sometimes  it  assumes  the  aggressive  and  reformatory  aspect ; 
then  again  it  clings,  with  a  loving  tenacity,  to  the  present 
and  the  past.    It  cannot  endure  the  conflict  and  commotion 
incident  to  revolution  or  change.    It  sees  no  good  in  it,  but 
rather  hazard,  weariness,  and  unnecessary  labor.  These 
various  manifestations  may  arise,  not  so  much  from  different 
degrees  of  piety,  as  from  a  difference  of  original  temperament. 
Some  men  are  naturally  fond  of  stir  and  excitement ;  they 
desire  to  be  in  motion  and  to  see  everything  moving  around 
them.    Monotony — quietism — is  positively  onerous  to  them. 
They  have  no  patience  with  a  drone  or  a  dreamy  sentimen- 
talist.   If  such  persons  are  converted,  they  will  make  a  stir ; 
there  is  no  danger  of  a  stagnation  of  the  waters  agitated  by 
their  movements.    But  who  will  say  that  they  are  altogether 
indebted  to  religion  for  their  zeal  and  activity  ?    They  may 
have  no  more  moral  principle  than  the  man  who  cultivates 
more  the  interior  life — who  is  meditative  and  modest — who 
acts  less  and  thinks  the  more — who  tills  noiselessly  the  field, 
for  which  nature,  as  well  as  grace,  has  fitted  him.  Who 
will  venture  to  say  that  Peter  was  more  pious  than  John  1 


300 


MARTHA. 


yet  he  was  more  active — apparently  more  zealous.  The 
fact  is,  they  were  naturally  different  men,  and  grace  did  not 
annihilate  their  idiosyncracies  of  temperament  or  character. 
Their  piety  may  have  been  equal,  for  aught  we  know — but 
Peter,  from  his  natural  temperament,  was  more  subject  to 
temptation  than  John.    It  may  have  cost  him  a  greater 
struggle,   more  self-denial,  to  be  a  Christian,  than  it  did 
the  beloved  disciple.     John's  temperament  and  character 
more  readily  harmonized  with  the  principles  and  spirit  of  the 
gospel.    He  may  not  have  had  a  quick  and  irascible  temper 
to  be  overcome,  or  strong  passions  to  be  subdued,  or  peculiar 
susceptibilities  to  which  temptation  might  powerfully  appeal ; 
and  hence  his  love  and  gentleness  may  not  all  have  been 
moral  virtue,  but  an  amiable  goodness.    Virtue,  to  be  known, 
must  be  tried— it  must  come  into  conflict  with  temptation 
and  vice ;  it  must  enter  the  arena  of  a  moral  encounter  be- 
fore  we  can  certainly  pronounce  it  genuine.    We  can  con- 
ceive that  a  naturally  irritable  and  fretful  man,  who  even  at 
times  hurts  his  profession  by  occasional  ebullitions  of  passion, 
may  really  have  more  piety  than  one  who  is  always  meek 
and  gentle.    He  may  have  more  encounters  with  temptation 
and  manifest  more  resistance  in  a  single  day,  than  another 
may  have  occasion  to  do  in  a  year.    There  is  really  no  virtue 
in  being  or  doing  that  which  costs  us  nothing.    The  life  of 
a  Christian  is  represented  in  Scripture  as  a  warfare— an 
encounter  with  u  principalities  and  powers " — an  earnest 
wrestling  with  the  unseen  enemies  that  war  against  the 
soul  even  until  the  mastery  is  gained.    He  who  does  battle 
against  an  evil  temper,  and  conquers  it,  has  done  a  noble 
service.   "  He  that  is  slow  to  anger,  is  better  than  the  mighty  ; 
and  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit,  than  he  who  taketh  a  city." 
He  who  has  no  spirit  to  overcome,  no  violent  passion  to  con- 
quer— who  is  naturally  amiable  and  gentle — is  not  as  much 
entitled  to  this  high  encomium  as  he  who  "  finds  in  him  a 
law  warring  against  the  law  of  his  mind,"  and  yet  who  keeps 
his  body  under,  and  suffers  not  his  inferior  nature  to  gain 
the  ascendency. 

We  may  not  be  sufficiently  lenient  in  our  indiscriminate 


MARTHA. 


301 


censures,  or  cautious  in  our  unqualified  praise,  not  under- 
standing the  different  temperaments  and  ruling"  passions  of 
different  men.  Thus  we  apprehend  that  the  religious  world 
have  not  been  sufficiently  charitable  to  Martha,  forgetting 
the  natural  bent  of  her  disposition  ;  and  she  has  been  cen- 
sured as  worldly,  selfish,  and  irritable.  Mary,  on  the  con- 
trary, has  been  cherished  as  a  model  of  perfection — the  gem 
of  that  beloved  family.  We  would  be  the  last  to  detract 
from  her  excellence.  She  also  did  the  Saviour  honor ;  she 
exhibited  the  true  heart  of  woman — her  whole  nature  was 
turned  to  the  melodies  of  love ;  she  made  choice  of  that 
"good  part"  which  shall  never  be  taken  from  her.  But  is 
there  any  evidence  that  Martha  had  not  chosen  the  same 
"good  part?"  There  is  abundant  proof  to  the  contrary. 
Her  love  and  piety  were  manifested  in  receiving  Jesus  to 
her  house,  and  in  aiming  to  provide  suitable  entertainment 
for  so  distinguished  a  Guest.  It  was  an  exhibition  of  her 
faith  and  obedience  in  the  mode  most  agreeable  to  her  active 
and  industrious  temperament.  The  bent  of  Mary's  mind 
led  her  in  a  different  direction.  But  had  both  been  of  the 
same  mind,  there  would  have  been  a  fast  in  the  house  of 
Bethany,  rather  than  a  feast,  and  Jesus  would  have  hun- 
gered in  the  family  of  his  friends.  He  accepts  the  free-wiil 
offering  of  both,  and  it  was  only  when  Martha  suffered  her 
anxiety,  for  a  moment,  to  get  the  better  of  her  charity, 
that  she  erred,  and  received  that  gentle  rebuke, — "  Martha, 
Martha,  thou  art  careful  and  troubled  about  many  things." 
This  does  not  imply  any  lack  of  confidence  in  Martha,  any 
distrust  of  her  piety.  A  written  testimonial  is  given  of  his 
affection  for  her,  as  well  as  for  the  other  members  of  the 
family, — "  Now  Jesus  loved  Martha,  and  her  sister,  and  La- 
zarus." Behold  again  their  different  traits  of  character  when 
sorrow  enters  their  dwelling.  Both  are  anxious,  both  watch 
beside  the  patient  sufferer,  and  listen  with  troubled  hope 
to  his  labored  breathing.  The  thoughts  of  both  are  turned 
to  Jesus  ;  but  he  is  away — far  beyond  Jerusalem.  He  returns 
not  with  the  messenger,  who  had  been  sent  to  inform  him 
that  his  friend  Lazarus  was  sick.    "  Why  does  he  not  come  V 


302 


MARTHA. 


inquire  the  anxious  sisters.  "If  he  were  here,  our  brother 
would  not  die."  The  cloud  deepens — the  dreaded  calamity- 
hastens — the  awful  crisis  has  come — and  the  beloved  Lazarus 
is  dead  !  And  will  not  Jesus  be  there  to  attend  the  rites  of 
sepulture,  and  mourn  with  the  bereaved  sisters  of  Bethany  1 
He  is  not  there,  and  the  blow  has  fallen,  like  a  thunderbolt, 
upon  their  crushed  hearts.  Mary,  that  delicate  and  loving 
creature,  who  had  sat  at  the  feet  of  Jesus,  is  stricken  like  a 
defenceless  thing  to  the  earth.  The  blow  was  too  much  for 
her.  She  sits  now  in  her  disconsolate  dwelling,  like  a  motion- 
less statue,  dumb  with  grief.  Her  heart  is  breaking  with 
sorrow.  Martha  also  is  sad — feels  deeply  her  loss  ;  but  her 
lofty  faith  is  turned  to  Jesus,  and  patiently  does  she  wait 
his  coming.  She  turns  her  anxious  eye  to  Jericho,  and  then 
she  looks  with  a  steadfast  gaze  over  the  Mount  of  Olives, 
that  she  may  recognize,  amid  the  numerous  passers-by,  the 
well-known  form  of  Jesus.  At  length  she  beholds,  through 
the  dim  and  early  twilight,  the  form  of  a  man.  She  is  told 
that  it  is  Jesus  who  is  coming ;  and  as  soon  as  she  heard 
that,  she  ran  and  met  him — "  but  Mary  sat  still  in  the  house." 
Whose  heart  is  now  responsive  to  the  coming  of  her  Lord, 
and  hastens  to  express  her  sublime  faith  in  Him  who  is  the 
resurrection  and  the  life?  "Lord,"  says  she,  "if  thou  hadst 
been  here,  my  brother  had  not  died.  But  I  know,  that  even 
now,  whatsoever  thou  wilt  ask  of  God,  God  will  give  it  thee." 
Jesus  saith  unto  her, — "  Thy  brother  shall  rise  again."  She 
doubts  not,  but  says, — "  Yea,  Lord,  I  believe  that  thou  art 
the  Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  which  should  come  into  the 
world."  The  intimation  that  her  brother  should  rise  again — 
that  he  should  come  back  from  the  land  of  darkness  and 
corruption,  and  move  again  in  this  living  world — was  too 
strange  and  joyful  news  to  be  kept  for  a  moment  in  her  own 
heart,  and  she  hastens  to  her  disconsolate  sister,  and  says, — 
"  The  Master  is  come,  and  calleth  for  thee."  At  this  an- 
nouncement, Mary  awakes  from  her  delirium  of  grief,  arises 
quickly,  and  comes  to  Jesus.  The  Jews,  who  supposed  that 
she  was  going  to  the  grave  to  yield  to  the  uncontrollable 
passion  of  grief,  followed  her.    She  falls  at  the  feet  of  Jesus, 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LIFE. 


303 


and  says,  in  the  language  of  Martha, — "  Lord,  if  thou  hadst 
been  here,  my  brother  had  not  died."  Mary,  Martha,  and 
their  Jewish  friends  were  all  assembled,  and  weeping  with 
inconsolable  sorrow.  At  this  sublime  spectacle  of  mingled 
grief  and  affection,  "  Jesus  wept,"  and  said, — "  Where  have 
ye  laid  him  ?"  He  is  directed  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  He 
prays;  earnest  and  tremulous  were  the  tones  of  his  voice. 

"He  ceased — 
And  for  a  minute's  space  there  was  a  hush, 
As  if  the  angelic  watchers  of  the  world 
Had  stayed  the  pulses  of  all  breathing  things. 
To  listen  to  that  prayer." 

"Take  ye  away  the  stone,"  said  Jesus.  For  a  moment, 
doubt  and  faith  alternate  in  the  bosom  of  the  anxious  Mar- 
tha— but  faith,  at  length,  triumphs.  "And  Jesus  cried  with 
a  loud  voice, — 1  Lazarus,  come  forth  !'  " 

"O  God !  what  means  that  strange  and  sudden  sound 
That  murmurs  from  the  tomb — that  ghastly  head, 
With  funeral  fillets  bound  ? 
It  is  a  living  form ! 
The  loved — the  lost — the  won — 
Won  from  the  grave,  corruption,  and  the  worm ! 
«  And  is  this  the  Son  of  God  V 
They  whispered ;  while  the  sisters  poured 
Their  gratitude  in  tears — for  they  had  known  the  Lord." 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LIFE. 


I  dreamed — I  saw  a  little  rosy  child, 
With  flaxen  ringlets,  in  a  garden  playing; 
Now  stopping  here,  and  then  afar  off  straying, 

As  flower  or  butterfly  his  feet  beguiled. 
'Twas  changed.    One  summer's  day  I  stepped  aside, 

To  let  him  pass;  his  face  had  manhood's  seeming, 

And  that  full  eye  of  blue  was  fondly  beaming 
On  a  fair  maiden  whom  he  called  "his  Bride." 

Once  more :  'twas  autumn,  and  the  cheerful  fire 
I  saw  a  group  of  youthful  forms  surrounding, 
The  room  with  harmless  pleasantry  resounding, 

And  in  the  midst  I  marked  the  smiling  Sire. 
The  heavens  were  clouded : — and  I  heard  the  tone 
Of  a  slow-moving  bell:  the  white-haired  man  was  gone! 


THE  FEMALE  CONVICT  TO  HER  INFANT. 


Oh,  sleep  not,  my  babe — for  the  morn  of  to-morrow 
Will  hush  me  to  slumbers  more  tranquil  than  thine ; 

The  dark  grave  will  shield  me  from  shame  and  from  sorrow, 
Though  the  deeds  and  the  doom  of  the  guilty  are  mine. 

Not  long  shall  the  arm  of  affection  enfold  thee — 
Not  long  shalt  thou  hang  on  thy  mother's  fond  breast; 

And  who  with  the  eye  of  delight  shall  behold  thee, 
Who  watch  thee,  and  guard  thee,  when  I  am  at  rest? 

And  yet  doth  it  grieve  me  to  wake  thee,  my  dearest, 

The  pangs  of  thy  desolate  parent  to  see : 
Thou  wilt  weep  when  the  clank  of  my  fetters  thou  hearest, 

And  none  but  the  guilty  should  mourn  over  me. 

And  yet  must  I  wake  thee — for  while  thou  art  weeping, 

To  calm  thee,  I  stifle  my  tears  for  awhile ; 
But  thou  smil'st  in  thy  dreams  while  thus  placidly  sleeping, 

And,  oh,  how  it  wounds  me  to  gaze  on  thy  smile ! 

Alas,  my  sweet  babe !  with  what  pride  had  I  press'd  thee 
To  the  bosom  that  now  throbs  with  terror  and  shame, 

If  the  pure  tie  of  virtuous  affection  had  bless'd  thee, 
And  hail'd  thee  the  heir  of  thy  father's  high  name ! 

But  now,  with  remorse  that  avails  not,  I  mourn  thee, 
Forsaken  and  friendless  as  soon  thou  wilt  be  ; 

In  a  world,  if  it  cannot  betray,  that  will  scorn  thee — 
Avenging  the  guilt  of  thy  mother  on  thee. 

And  when  the  dark  thought  of  thy  fate  shall  awaken 
The  deep  blush  of  shame  on  thy  innocent  cheek ; 

When  by  all,  but  the  God  of  the  orphan,  forsaken, 
A  home  and  a  father  in  vain  thou  shalt  seek. 

I  know  that  the  base  world  will  strive  to  deceive  thee, 
With  falsehood  like  that  which  thy  mother  beguil'd ; 

Deserted  and  helpless,  to  whom  can  I  leave  thee ! — 
Oh,  God  of  the  fatherless,  pity  my  child ! 


THE   DOUBLE  LOVE 

A  FACT. 


Grace,  harmony,  and  elegance  were  raying"  forth  their 
splendors  for  the  delight  of  a  nation — for  Elssler  was  on  the 
stage.  The  ballet  of  the  evening  was  Le  Dieu  et  la  Bay- 
adere. Perhaps  the  world  does  not  afford  a  finer  or,  more 
appropriate  plot ;  and  rarely  has  a  beautiful  story  been  mar- 
ried to  sweeter  music.  It  does  not,  to  be  sure,  admit  those 
wild,  those  bewitching  flights  that  make  the  peculiar  magic 
of  this  surpassing  creature  ;  but  still  it  affords  a  fine  display 
of  the  powers  of  the  most  wonderful  pantome  that  ever 
acted  eloquence.  Mark  how  every  limb  of  this  airy  being 
waves  to  the  melodious  music,  as  if  the  life  that  gives  them 
motion  had  its  origin  and  centre  in  those  sounds — as  if  the 
music  were  an  inspiration,  that,  like  a  transfusing  deity, 
charged  her  whole  frame  with  buoyant  power.  If  you  saw 
not  the  orchestra,  you  might  suppose  that  her  limbs  gave  off 
the  music.  One  skilful  to  translate  into  sound  these  hiero- 
glyphics of  motion,  might  write  the  opera  by  the  eye.  She 
sinks,  as  evening  declines  along  the  valleys ;  she  rises  upon 
the  sight,  like  morning  dawning  on  the  hills.  As  she  throws 
forth  her  arms  or  feet,  they  seem  to  melt  away  into  light, 
and  to  leave  behind  them  a  kind  of  flash. 

But  from  the  dancing — even  from  such  dancing — my 
attention  was  diverted  towards  a  young  actress  who  sang 
in  one  of  the  chorusses.  It  was  a  new  face,  and  surprisingly 
beautiful,  and  of  a  most  original  and  engaging  style  of  beau- 
ty, that  lay  rather  in  a  flashing  and  sensitive  expression 
than  in  the  contour  of  the  features.  Her  restless,  glancing, 
dark  eye,  and  the  delicate  impatience  of  her  lip,  indicated 
a  genius  that  was  little  in  keeping  with  the  commonplace 
creatures  around  her.    Her  voice,  too,  though  repressed  by  a 


306 


THE   DOUBLE  LOVE. 


painful  timidity,  was  infinitely  superior  to  every  other  in  the 
company,  in  a  wild,  enchanting  sweetness.  She  seemed  a 
mere  child,  but  one  could  augur  the  most  brilliant  achieve- 
ments for  such  powers  in  the  future. 

While  I  was  wondering  who  it  could  be,  and  how  she  had 
got  into  such  an  insignificant  position,  I  saw  my  tall  friend 
Granville  making  his  way  through  the  pit  to  get  at  me,  as 
I  sat  in  the  centre  of  it.  He  had  been  dining  out,  and  his 
intellects,  never  of  the  clearest,  were  now  in  a  state  of  the 
most  charming  confusion.  Whether  he  was  diverted  at  my 
sitting  in  the  pit,  or  what  other  inexplicable  jest  had  gotten 
into  his  head,  he  was  no  sooner  seated  than  he  began  to 
giggle  at  me,  and,  holding  down  his  head,  laughed  sans 
intermission:  He  presently  looked  up  at  the  stage,  and 
made  all  sorts  of  ridiculous  remarks  about  the  performers. 
There  was  a  fellow  with  long  hair  who  played  Bramah, 
and  sang  vilely. 

"Bramah's  locks,"  said  Granville,  with  a  titter,  "are 
in  great  order  to-night:  I  wish  his  key  was  half  as  good." 
Then  fixing  on  my  little  Malibran,  who  broke  forth  at  that 
minute,  "Hiss  her  off!"  he  stuttered  out :  " her  voice  is  as 
cracked  as  her  reputation  !" 

"  But  not  quite  so  false,"  said  a  clear  voice  behind,  "  as 
your  pretensions  to  the  character  of  a  gentleman  !" 

I  looked  round,  and  saw  the  person  from  whom  the  voice 
proceeded.  He  was  plainly  a  gentleman.  Granville  rose 
in  his  majesty  to  such  a  height,  that  I  thought  he  was  going 
to  put  his  head  out  of  the  ventilator  to  call  a  constable. 
In  a  few  moments  the  house  was  in  an  uproar — and  "  Turn 
them  out !"  resounded  from  every  quarter.  Both  were  ac- 
cordingly handed  across  the  benches,  and  ejected  from  the 
door  with  the  most  satisfactory  expedition. 

Such  was  my  first  acquaintance  with  two  persons  in 
whom  I  became  afterwards  a  good  deal  interested. 

The  next  morning  I  went  round  among  my  friends,  and 
found  that  the  little  singer  had  produced  on  others  the  im- 
pression she  had  made  on  me;  the  manager  also  seemed  to 
have  become  aware  of  her  merits,  for  in  an  opera  that  was 


I 

THE  DOUBLE  LOVE. 


307 


announced  for  the  end  of  the  week,  the  second  part  was 
given  to  her. 

I  was  at  a  musical  party  at  Mrs.  B.'s  the  following  even- 
ing ;  and  at  a  late  hour  this  person — whose  name  I  now 
learned  was  Clara  Carelli — came  in.  Her  figure  was  slight, 
but  perfectly  well  made,  and  her  movements  graceful  to 
enchantment.  Her  complexion,  which  was  of  a  bright  ro- 
seate hue,  formed  a  striking  contrast  with  her  large  and  flash- 
ing black  eye.  Her  light  hair,  which  curled  naturally,  was 
done  up  in  a  manner  perfectly  novel,  but  very  tasteful. 
You  would,  perhaps,  have  called  her  appearance  outre,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  refined  beauty  and  faultless  delicacy  that 
reigned  throughout ;  as  it  was,  she  seemed  a  romantic  thing, 
and  illustrated  Bacon's  remark,  that  the  beauty  that  has  in  it 
some  strangeness  and  irregularity,  is  ever  the  most  fasci- 
nating. She  tripped  towards  the  piano,  and  played  a  few 
popular  pieces  with  great  expression  and  finish.  I  understood 
Mrs.  B.  then  to  ask  her  if  she  would  not  play  something  of 
her  own.  Her  fingers  ran  hurriedly  over  the  keys  for  a  few 
moments,  and  her  voice  then  broke  out  into  one  of  the  wild- 
est and  most  exquisite  melodies  I  ever  listened  to  in  my  life. 
Both  the  words  and  the  air  were  wholly  new,  and  seemed 
the  very  breathings  of  an  impassioned  spirit.  The  burden 
of  it  was  the  utterance  of  a  boundless,  infinite  love,  that 
soared  purposeless  ;  its  exalted  object  unknowing  of  the  ardor, 
and  incapable  of  being  made  to  know.  It  was  an  air  of 
melting  plaint  and  pathos,  mingled  with  thrilling  ecstasy 
and  rapturous  delight.  I  never  heard  such  power  of  voice 
nor  such  exhaustless  gushing  forth  of  sensibility.  The  most 
piteous,  still-deepening  melancholy,  pressed  upon  the  chords, 
like  the  shrill  wind  moaning  keenly  through  the  leafless 
woods ;  and  then,  though  it  yielded  not  nor  changed,  it  be- 
came charged  with  a  delicious  transport  of  happiness,  and 
the  united  but  not  blended  emotions  rolled  on  together  till 
it  seemed  as  if  the  heart  of  the  performer  must  be  crazed  by 
the  excitement.  Her  notes  sometimes  pierced  the  ear  like 
the  tones  of  the  nightingale,  and  then  melted  away  into 
breathings  as  "  gentle  as  the  morning  light "    It  seemed  as 


308  THE  DOUBLE  LOVE. 

if  her  soul  had  become  vocal  in  a  harmony  as  various  as  its 

faculties. 

While  the  air  proceeded,  I  saw  the  person  whom  I  had 
encountered  the  night  before  at  the  ballet,  come  forward 
from  the  other  room.  He  approached  the  instrument  and 
looked  at  her  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  turned  on  his 
heel  and  went  back.  When  she  saw  him,  an  immediate 
change  took  place  in  her  manner :  her  voice  trembled — 
broke  :  she  finished  the  piece  in  a  hurried,  defective  manner, 
then  glided  away  from  the  piano,  and  threw  herself  in  a 
large  chair  near  to  me  in  a  state  of  mingled  excitement  and 
exhaustion.    I  approached  her. 

"  The  possession  of  so  rich  a  talent,"  said  I,  "  must  confer 
upon  you  a  happiness  that  common  persons  cannot  conceive 
of." 

"I  am  most  unhappy,"  she  replied. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  I,  "  if  one  who  can  confer  such  delight 
on  others,  does  not  enjoy  it  herself." 

"  The  misery  of  the  heart,"  said  she,  "  is  the  inspiration 
of  genius.    Art  is  the  monument  of  man's  discontent." 

"Ah  !"  said  I,  UI  gather  from  your  song  that  you  are  in 
love." 

"  I  know  not  what  is  love.  To  have  lost  your  soul  in  the 
being  of  another — to  have  your  spirit  kindled  into  a  wild  and 
infinite  craving,  and  become  a  ship  that  sails  an  unknown 
sea  without  a  rudder,  a  bird  that  soars  without  a  home — 
this  is  not  love  ;  it  is  anguish — it  is  rapture." 

Mrs.  B.  brought  up  the  gentleman  I  have  spoken  of  be- 
fore, and  introduced  him  to  her  as  Mr.  Beaumont.  As  he 
approached,  her  face  was  suffused  with  blushes  and  her 
head  bent  down  upon  her  bosom.  He  conversed  with  her 
a  little  while  very  civilly,  but  perhaps  a  little  coolly,  and  then 
withdrew,  I  spoke  to  her,  but  received  no  answer — and, 
looking  at  her,  saw  the  tears  silently  gushing  from  her  closed 
eves.  I  tried  to  rouse  her,  but  she  seemed  lost  in  gloom  and 
hopeless  dejection.  I  walked  away,  and  spoke  to  Mr.  Beau- 
mont. He  was  very  gentlemanly,  and  impressed  me  so 
agreeably,  I  determined  to  cultivate  him. 


THE  DOUBLE  LOVE. 


309 


When  Clara  appeared  in  the  opera,  she  displayed  a  splen- 
dor of  voice  and  a  delicacy  and  precision  of  execution  which 
raised  her  at  one  step  to  the  highest  eminence  of  admiration. 
She  was  under  the  highest  excitement  until  she  had  distinct 
tokens  of  complete  and  unquestionable  triumph  ;  her  manner 
then  rose  to  a  calm  dignity  and  a  more  exalted  grace.  The 
prima  donna  was  totally  eclipsed,  and  towards  the  close 
seemed  content  to  play  the  second  part.  The  town  was 
taken  as  it  were  by  storm  ;  everybody  hastened  to  heap  up 
honor  and  praises  at  her  feet,  and  a  career  was  opened  which 
promised  to  outstrip  even  Malibran's.  Her  proud,  ambitious, 
sensitive  spirit  seemed  not  to  be  satisfied  with  even  these 
tributes ;  and  however  high  the  homage  of  society  rose,  her 
mind  seemed  still  above  it.  • 

There  was  a  mystery  about  her  character  which  interested 
me.  I  could  see  at  once  from  her  action  and  her  singing 
that  she  possessed  intense  and  fiery  susceptibilities,  and  a 
heart  that  experience  must  have  sounded  to  the  depths.  Yet 
was  she  the  tenderest  youth ;  her  manner  and  powers  had 
the  maturity  of  a  woman,  but  her  light,  glancing,  unsteady 
countenance  was  that  of  childhood.  I  determined  to  go 
and  see  her ;  and  as  I  know  there  is  always  one  way  to 
the  female  heart,  I  took  with  me  some  chains  and  rings  as 
presents.  I  found  her  alone  at  her  lodgings.  I  expressed 
the  interest  I  felt  in  her,  and  assured  her  of  the  real  friendli- 
ness of  my  wishes ;  but  it  was  in  vain  until  I  produced  the 
gifts :  her  heart  then  opened  itself,  and  we  became  very  inti- 
mate and  confidential.  I  told  her  of  my  sincere  disposition 
to  serve  her,  and  that  any  communication  she  honored  me 
with  should  be  sacredly  kept.  I  at  last  prevailed  on  her  to 
give  me  a  little  sketch  of  her  history. 

"  My  father,"  said  she,  "  was  a  native  of  Italy,  and  a 
person  of  rank.  He  forfeited  his  estate  for  opposition  to  the 
Austrian  tyranny,  and  came  to  this  country  poor.  He  mar- 
ried, and  my  mother  died  soon  after  my  birth.  We  lived 
alone  in  the  country.  My  father  conceived  that  I  showed 
extraordinary  capacity  for  music ;  and  being  himself  pro- 
foundly instructed  in  that  art,  he  spent  most  of  his  time  in 


310 


THE  DOUBLE  LOVE. 


developing  the  powers  of  my  hand  and  voice.  His  pride  cut 
him  off  from  associates  on  the  one  hand,  and  his  poverty 
on  the  other ;  and  we  lived  therefore  wholly  alone.  One 
day — it  was  one  of  those  bright  deep  days  in  June  when 
heaven  seems  to  be  descended  on  the  earth  and  to  encom- 
pass it — I  walked  out  into  the  woods  along  the  great  road 
that  passed  near  our  house.  A  little  brook  crossed  the  way, 
and  passed  under  a  small  stone  arch.  I  sat  down  beside  it, 
and  leaned  over  the  water  to  pluck  some  flowers  that  grew 
in  it.  I  presently  heard  a  noise  above  me,  and,  looking  up, 
I  saw  standing  on  the  arched  bridge  the  most  splendid  being 
I  ever  beheld."  She  turned  her  head  aside,  and  continued 
her  story  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  "  His  beaming 
countenance,  <*ith  his  golden  locks  curling  around  it,  made 
him  glorious  as  the  sun.  I  was  dazzled  and  awed  by  his 
beauty  as  if  it  had  been  a  terror.  My  eye  shrank  from  the 
lustre  of  his  gaze,  and  I  was  ready  to  sink  into  the  earth 
before  him.  He  spoke  to  me,  and  his  voice  seemed  to  pierce 
to  my  heart  and  to  subdue  it:  I  could  not  resist  it.  He  ask- 
ed me  where  I  was  going ;  and  I  told  him  I  was  going  into 
the  forest  to  sing.  He  asked  me  to  sing  to  him — and  I  tried, 
but  could  not,  for  my  voice  was  wholly  gone,  and  I  said  that 
T  could  not  sing  without  my  piano.  He  made  me  show  him 
where  I  lived,  and  promised  to  see  me  again,  for  he  was  then 
hurried.  He  then  left  me,  and  I  sat  down  as  one  in  a  dream. 
It  was  an  exquisite  and  perfect  delight,  as  if  a  pure  and  un- 
fading sunlight  shone  upon  my  being.  1  sat  there  almost 
unconscious,  I  know  not  how  long  ;  and  it  has  seemed  to  me 
that  I  should  not  since  have  been  so  enslaved  to  his  spirit,  if 
I  had  not  then,  by  meditating  so  long,  imbibed  that  enchant- 
ment so  deeply,  and  admitted  it  to  the  recesses  of  my  bosom, 
and  imbued  my  soul  with  it.  The  next  afternoon,  a  carriage 
came  down  from  the  house  of  a  rich  lady  who  lived  at  a 
little  distance,  to  bring  me  up  there  with  some  of  my  music; 
and  when  1  reached  the  place,  I  found  that  he  was  there, 
and  it  was  he  that  had  told  the  lady  of  me,  and  caused  her 
to  send  for  me.  There  was  a  small  party  of  young  ladies 
in  the  parlor,  and  I  went  to  the  piano  and  played,  and  none 


THE  DOUBLE  LOVE. 


311 


of  them  came  near  me ;  but  he  came  to  me,  and  spoke  in  so 
soft  a  voice,  and  turned  over  the  leaves  for  me ;  and  I  touch- 
ed his  hand,  and  felt  his  fragrant  breath  upon  my  cheek ; 
and  I  was  so  happy  that  I  would  gladly  have  died  in  that 
moment.  After  a  little  while,  the  company  went  in  to  tea 
in  another  room,  and  I  came  away  :  and  when  I  had  left  the 
house,  I  became  so  much  afraid  that  I  should  not  see  him 
again,  that  I  turned  back  to  speak  to  him.  A  servant  called 
him  into  the  entry — but  when  he  came,  my  voice  was  gone  ; 
and  when  he  asked  me  what  I  wanted,  I  could  not  speak ; 
but  I  pointed  to  a  little  girl  that  was  with  me,  and  she  told 
him  I  had  come  back  to  tell  him  that  if  he  would  come  to 
my  house  the  next  day,  I  would  play  a  particular  piece  he 
had  asked  for.  And  he  thanked  me  kindly,  and  shook  hands 
with  me,  and  promised  to  come.  What  a  flash  of  joy  darted 
through  me  when  I  saw  him,  through  the  window,  coming 
in  the  next  day  !  I  thought  I  was  happy  in  expecting  him, 
but  the  thrill  of  rapture  that  my  frame  then  trembled  with, 
told  me  how  dull  and  miserable  my  life  had  been  before.  1 
wanted  to  rush  to  his  arms ;  but  though  he  was  very  kind 
and  friendly,  he  was  so  cold,  so  frigid.  T  played,  and  as  he 
sat  beside  me,  that  visit  was  a  long  ecstasy.  I  played  on 
and  on,  that  he  might  have  no  opportunity  of  going  away ; 
but  at  last  he  rose,  and  said  that  he  must  leave  me :  and  I 
remained,  exhausted  and  wretched.  I  went  to  my  room  and 
wept :  it  was  ominous  of  my  fate,  for  I  never  saw  him  again. 
In  after  days  it  was  my  satisfaction  to  note  all  the  places 
where  he  had  sat,  and  I  marked  the  leaves  of  my  music-books 
which  he  had  touched,  that  I  might  never  forget  them  ;  and 
I  tried  to  find  if  he  had  not  left  something  behind  him,  if  it 
were  only  a  straw  or  a  leaf.  And  often  and  often  did  I  sit 
beside  the  brook  where  I  had  met  him,  and  picture  him 
standing  on  the  bridge ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  then  I  was 
not  wholly  waking,  but  wrapped  in  a  vision,  dream  being 
mingled  into  my  life.  But  I  was  rudely  awakened  by  the 
sudden  death  of  my  father.  That  event,  which  in  other  cir- 
cumstances might  have  prostrated  me,  roused  and  strength- 
ened my  energies.    I  at  first  sank  in  despair,  then  my  spirit 


312 


THE  DOUBLE  LOVE. 


rose  against  the  oppression  of  misery,  and  I  braved  and 
triumphed  over  it.  My  soul  was  absorbed  in  one  resolution 
to  find  the  person  who  had  produced  upon  my  feelings  so 
ineffaceable  an  impression.  I  said  to  myself,  1  He  loves  me 
not,  because  I  am  poor  and  obscure ;  I  will  go  forth  into  the 
world  ;  I  have  genius,  I  can  toil ;  I  will  grow  rich — I  will  be 
famous — I  will  subdue  the  world — I  will  win  his  affection.' 
I  sold  all  the  furniture  except  the  piano ;  I  moved  to  the  capi- 
tal, and  I  devoted  my  days  and  my  nights  for  three  years 
to  the  ardent  prosecution  of  music.  I  was  resolute,  daring, 
determined  to  succeed.  I  was  intolerant  of  failure  j  I  was 
incapable  of  it.  I  offered  my  services  at  last  to  the  manager 
of  the  theatre ;  and  fearing  lest  I  might  be  embarrassed, 
I  appeared  first  in  an  obscure  piece,  unannounced.  Since 
then,  I  have  gained  all  the  applause  I  could  have  wished  for. 
I  am  famous.  But,  can  I  win  his  love?  I  thought  not  of 
that  defeat.  If  I  cannot,  I  am  wretched  in  the  midst  of  my 
fame — I  am  overwhelmed  in  the  pride  of  my  triumph." 

I  listened  with  deep  interest  to  the  wild  and  strange  nar- 
ration of  this  child  of  passion.  As  she  concluded  her  narra- 
tive, her  manner  became  inexpressibly  saddened  ;  the  color 
left  her  cheek  ;  and  she  hung  down  her  head  as  if  in  lifeless 
woe.  I  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  the  person  that  she  spoke 
of,  since  her  appearance  in  public. 

"  I  have,"  she  said,  gloomily. 

"  Have  I  your  permission  to  guess  who  it  is?"  said  I. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !"  she  cried,  stretching  out  her  arms : 
"you  do  not  know,  and  cannot  possibly  conjecture.  You 
would  certainly  be  mistaken." 

I  had  however  no  great  difficulty  in  satisfying  my  own 
mind  as  to  who  the  person  was.  I  left  this  ardent  and  en- 
gaging female,  greatly  interested  in  her. 

I  subsequently  saw  a  good  deal  of  Beaumont.  Our  tastes 
and  pursuits  were  much  alike,  and  we  took  to  one  another 
a  good  deal.  He  spoke  of  Clara  with  admiration  of  her 
genius,  but  with  indifference  of  feeling.  He  did  not  appear 
to  remember  having  seen  her  before.  His  affairs  afterwards 
fell  into  some  embarrassments.    His  debts  were  not  large, 


THE  DOUBLE  LOVE. 


313 


and  would  have  been  perfectly  insignificant  at  another  time 
than  one  of  universal  commercial  distress.  He  possessed 
a  handsome  real  estate,  but  it  was  one  of  those  seasons  of 
prostrated  values,  when,  as  the  Quarterly  Review  once  said, 
a  tailor  might  cheapen  Carlton  House.  Some  difficulty 
about  trustees  or  outstanding  titles  rendered  it  impossible 
to  mortgage.  His  creditors  were  pressing,  and  his  property 
was  on  the  point  of  being  sold,  and  undoubtedly  the  state  of 
the  currency  and  the  confusion  of  the  title  would  cause  it  to 
be  sacrificed  for  a  song.  I  heard  these  things  with  regret — 
for  it  struck  me  that  December  was  not  a  very  agreeable  pe- 
riod of  the  year  in  which  to  be  turned  out  into  the  street. 

I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  room  on  a  bleak,  tempestuous 
night,  when  I  heard  a  hurried  tap  at  the  door,  which  was 
opened  immediately,  and  a  person  wrapped  in  a  black  cloak, 
dripping  wet,  came  in.  The  cloak  was  thrown  aside,  and 
revealed  the  person  of  Clara  Carelli.  Her  flushed  counte- 
nance showed  her  high  excitement.  She  threw  a  packet 
upon  the  table. 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  she,  breathlessly,  "  that  Mr.  Beau- 
mont has  been  arrested  for  debt.  The  amount  of  his  debts 
is  in  money  in  that  parcel.  I  beg  of  you  that  you  will  at 
once  see  it  applied  to  the  satisfying  his  creditors  and  pro- 
curing his  release.  But  I  enjoin  upon  you  on  no  account 
to  let  him  know  from  whom  it  comes." 

I  was  astonished  at  this  sincere  and  affecting  display  of 
romantic  attachment,  and  gazed  for  a  moment  in  silence 
upon  the  beautiful  and  beaming  countenance  before  me. 

"Do  not  delay,"  she  cried  ;  "I  ask  you  as  a  friend  He 
may  be  at  this  moment  in  a  noisome  prison." 

I  groaned  inwardly  as  I  listened  to  the  hail  driving  against 
the  windows,  and  I  thought  that  the  storm  had  never  been 
so  violent  as  it  was  at  that  moment.  Though  passion  might 
render  one  indifferent  to  the  elements,  yet  I  reflected  /  was 
not  in  love  with  Mr.  Beaumont.  I  was  sure  that  she  was 
mistaken  in  supposing  that  he  had  been  arrested — for  I  knew 
that  no  man  can  be  arrested  who  has  property.  I  was  going 
to  tell  her  this,  and  to  suggest  that  it  would  be  more  humane 


314 


THE  DOUBLE  LOVE. 


to  leave  a  man  in  prison  than  to  bring  him  out  of  it  on  such 
a  night :  but  when  I  looked  on  the  exalted  ardor  that  blazed 
in  her  animated  features,  I  thought  it  would  be  cruel  to 
dash  her  enthusiasm  by  showing  that  it  was  needless,  or  to 
diminish  the  glorious  satisfaction  she  must  feel  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  such  a  deed.  I  accordingly  ordered  a  hackney- 
coach,  and,  having  set  her  down  at  home,  drove  to  Beau- 
mont's. Her  last  injunction  to  me  was,  not  to  disclose  the 
person  from  whom  the  money  came.  When  I  reached  his 
house,  it  was  as  I  suspected  ;  he  had  not  been  arrested. 
However,  I  found  that  I  had  come  very  opportunely.  His 
creditors  were  then  with  him,  and  they  wTere  arranging  for 
the  sale  of  his  property.  I  called  him  aside,  and  put  the 
money  in  his  hands,  with  such  information  as  to  its  source 
as  I  was  permitted  to  give.  He  hesitated  a  long  time  about 
accepting  it,  but  finally  acquiesced.  The  men  were  paid 
on  the  spot,  and  I  had  the  satisfaction  before  I  left  him  of 
shaking  hands  with  him  as  a  free  man.  I  drove  of  course 
at  once  to  Clara's  to  inform  her  of  the  result.  Beaumont 
was  penetrated  with  gratitude  for  an  act  which  prevented 
the  sacrifice  of  his  property ;  and  the  next  day  lodged  in  my 
hands  security  for  re-payment. 

Beaumont  and  myself  had  once  or  twice  called  on  Clara. 
On  the  occasion  of  his  visits,  her  manner  was  generally 
depressed  and  silent.  We  called  a  day  or  two  after  this 
occurrence. 

"  Ha !"  said  he,  as  we  entered,  "  I  want  you  to  sing  for  us 
that  charming  little  air  you  gave  us  last  night.  But — Made- 
moiselle Carelli — your  piano  is  gone  ;  how  is  that  V 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with  some  con- 
fusion, "  It  is  sold." 

"  Sold  ! — why  it  is  indispensable  to  you  !  Ah  !  ha  !  I  see  ! 
Mademoiselle,  you  have  been  extravagant;  you  have  got  in 
debt.    You  have  been  obliged  to  sell  it." 

Her  face  was  turned  from  him  as  she  sat,  and  was  deadly 
pale.    She  breathed  hard.    "  No,  no,"  said  she. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  sold  for  somebody  else,  then ;  you  have  some 
lover,  perhaps,  who  is  in  difficulty." 


THE  DOUBLE  LOVE. 


315 


u  It  was  sold  for  you,"  she  said,  scarce  articulately :  then 
bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears,  added,  "  I  know  not  what 
I  say." 

I  came  forward.  I  saw  that  her  feelings  had  made  her 
speak  against  her  intention ;  but  I  deemed  that  an  explana- 
tion was  indispensable. 

"It  is  to  this  admirable  person,"  said  I,  '-'that  you  are  be- 
holden for  the  money  you  received  through  me.  I  myself 
am  aware  for  the  first  time  that  the  sale  of  her  piano  fur- 
nished part  of  the  amount." 

Beaumont  fell  upon  his  knee,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  his 
lips. 

"  How  can  I  express  my  obligation  for  such  transcendent 
goodness?  In  uttering  my  gratitude,  let  me  add  to  it  my 
unfeigned  love.  It  has  always  been  the  passionate  wish  of 
my  heart  to  be  loved  sincerely  and  ardently.  I  was  inter- 
ested in  you  from  the  moment  I  saw  you  ;  and  I  should  have 
expressed  my  feelings,  had  it  not  been  " 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  she,  interrupting  him :  "  you 
thought  me  too  humble — too  base.  I  am  unworthy  of  you, 
who  are  so  noble." 

"Not  so — not  so,"  said  he.  "But  I  will  be  frank  with 
you,  Clara.  Years  ago,  it  was  my  fortune  to  meet  with  a 
young  person  whose  beauty  and  genius  captivated  my  heart. 
It  was  in  the  country  ;  I  told  not  my  love,  but  left  her  till 
I  could  see  if  such  arrangements  could  be  made  as  would 
permit  me  to  declare  myself.  When  I  returned,  she  was 
gone ;  and  I  have  never  seen  her  since.  For  her  sake,  I 
would  not  woo  another  ;  but  I  am  now  certain  of  never  find- 
ing her — and  you  alone  are  worthy  to  take  that  place  of 
empire  in  my  affections." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  fire  of  delight,  and 
surprise,  and  pride  that  kindled  her  countenance  as  he  pro- 
ceeded.   When  he  had  ended,  she  threw  herself  into  his 

arms,  and  cried,  "  I  am  she — I  am  she  !   You  remember  " 

but  her  voice  failed.    She  had  fainted. 

When  her  senses  were  restored,  I  took  my  leave  of  a  scene 
so  hallowed  to  these  parties  as  the  mutual  expression  of  a 
passion  so  profound,  so  delicious. 


316  to  ****** 

Beaumont  often  labored  subsequently  to  account  for  his 
not  having  recognized  her.  The  change  of  name,  of  posi- 
tion, of  dress,  and  the  great  difference  which  three  years, 
and  the  development  of  a  mind  so  ardent  and  mature  had 
wrought,  seemed  to  him  to  explain  the  mystery.  But  Clara, 
satisfied  with  his  later  affection,  often  rallied  him  on  the 
want  of  depth  in  his  first  love. 


T  0 


T  ask  not  if  the  world  unfold 

A  fairer  form  than  thine — 
Tresses  more  rich  in  glowing  gold, 

And  eyes  of  sweeter  shine. 

It  is  enough  for  me  to  know 

That  thou  art  fair  to  sight ; 
That  thou  hast  locks  of  golden  flow, 

And  eyes  of  playful  light. 

I  ask  not  if  there  beat  on  earth 
A  warmer  heart  than  thine — 

A  soul  more  rich  in  simple  worth — 
A  genius  more  divine. 

It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 

Thou  hast  a  soul  sincere — 
A  heart  well  made  for  quiet  love — 

A  fancy  rich  and  clear. 

Already  by  kind  heav'n,  so  far 

Beyond  my  wishes  blest, 
I  would  not,  with  presumptuous  pray'r, 

Petition  for  the  best. 

While  thou  art  wise,  and  good,  and  fair, 

Thou  art  that  best  to  me ; 
Nor  would  I,  might  I  choose,  prefer 

A  lovelier  still  to  thee. 


THE   REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


It  is  many  years  since  I  was  in  a  certain  neighborhood 
among  the  mountains  of  New  Jersey,  where  the  richest  culti- 
vation enhances  the  beauty  of  scenery  unusually  fine,  though 
not  wild  or  bold  enough  for  sublimity.  It  was  a  valley 
somewhat  extensive,  bordered  on  the  south  by  abrupt  and 
very  high  hills,  wooded  to  their  summit,  except  a  small  strip 
of  cultivated  land  near  their  base,  and  terminating  on  the 
north  side  in  sloping  uplands  covered  with  the  wealth  of 
harvest.  A  quiet  stream  murmured  through  the  meadows, 
now  narrowed  between  high  banks,  now  expanding  into  a 
lakelet,  near  which  stood  a  flour-mill.  The  house  where 
I  passed  some  days  at  this  time,  had  lawns  sloping  down 
to  the  stream  ;  and  I  remember  there  flourished  three  large 
drooping  willows,  which  I  hoped  might  always  escape  the 
axe  and  grow  old,  as  guardians  of  the  crystal  water.  Their 
exact  locality  was  fixed  in  my  memory  by  the  circumstance, 
that  over  their  tops  might  be  seen  a  cottage,  situated  on  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  just  in  the  verge  of  the  woods  and 
about  half  a  mile  distant.  The  loneliness  of  its  situation 
gave  it  something  of  romance,  and  I  observed  then  that  what 
had  once  been  a  garden  was  choked  with  tall  weeds  and 
briers,  and  that  a  rude  screen  of  boards  had  been  built  di- 
rectly in  front  of  the  cottage,  so  as  to  shut  out  all  view  of 
the  neighboring  dwellings.  This  strange  precaution  seemed 
misanthropical ;  or,  was  it  adopted  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
cealing from  curious  eyes  what  might  pass  within  doors7 
To  my  inquiry  who  occupied  that  hermit's  hut,  the  reply 
was,  "Walter  B  ." 

"  The  B  who  married  Jane  «  ?" 

"  The  same." 


318 


THE  REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


Her  name  called  up  distant  recollections.  I  had  seen 
Miss  S.  once  at  a  rustic  ball.  She  was  a  country  beauty, 
rather  better  educated  than  most  of  the  damsels  who  were 
her  companions.  Indeed,  her  father  used  to  complain  that 
she  spent  too  much  time  in  reading.  His  idea  was,  that 
after  a  girl  had  left  school  and  completed  her  education,  she 
had  nothing  more  to  do  with  books.  But  he  rarely  inter- 
fered except  by  a  little  grumbling  with  her  pursuits,  espe- 
cially as  his  house  was  always  in  the  best  order  and  his 
dinners  excellent.  Jane  was  a  choice  housekeeper,  and  her 
leisure  hours  she  spent  as  pleased  herself — not  heeding  her 
father's  ominous  shake  of  the  head,  when  he  saw  her  earn- 
estly devouring  a  book,  or  noticed  the  shelves  filled  with 
books  in  her  little  chamber.  "  She  will  leave  off  such  follies 
when  she  marries,"  was  his  consolatory  remark ;  and  in  truth, 
when  the  indulged  girl  did  marry,  whether  she  gave  up  her 
reading  or  not,  she  did  not  suffer  it  to  interfere  with  her 
household  duties.  She  was  the  most  exemplary  wife  and 
mother  in  the  country  ;  and  all  her  neighbors  predicted  hap- 
piness from  her  union  with  young  B  .    His  father  had 

left  him  a  small  farm  well  stocked,  with  a  house  large  enough 
for  comfort  and  even  elegance  ;  and  few  men  began  life  with 
better  prospects  of  contentment.  Walter  was  active  and 
ambitious,  and  wanted  to  secure  something  more  than  a 
competence  for  old  age.  My  acquaintance  with  the  young 
couple  had  left  them  thus,  and  I  was  naturally  somewhat 
surprised  to  find  them  living  in  a  home  of  so  little  pre- 
tension. 

"The  only  marvel  about  it,"  said  the  friend  to  whom 
I  expressed  my  wonder,  "  is.  that  they  have  a  home  at  all. 
When.  Walter  took  to  drink,  his  stock  went  first,  and  then 
his  farm  was  neglected,  till  at  last  when  sold  to  pay  his  debts, 
it  brought  less  than  half  its  value." 

Alas!  it  was  the  common  story  of  the  intemperate  man: 
first,  moderate  indulgence  in  frequent  convivial  meetings 
with  his  friends  ;  then,  occasional  excesses  that  unfitted  him 
for  work  for  days,  during  which  time  he  would  vow  and 
resolve  and  pledge  his  word  to  his  wife  that  each  should  be 


THE  REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


319 


the  last — followed  by  more  frequent  returnings  to  the  same 
excess,  till  the  doom  of  the  victim  was  sealed,  and  the  very 
friends  who  had  led  him  into  the  vice,  abandoned  him  in 
disgust. 

Since  the  desertion  of  his  boon  companions,  Walter  had 
become  gloomy  and  sullen — a  mood  which,  under  the  ex- 
citement he  now  daily  sought,  gave  place  to  wild  and  savage 
ferocity.  The  little  children  ran  from  him  if  they  saw  him 
on  the  road  ;  and  it  was  rumored  that  his  wretched  home 
too  frequently  witnessed  his  cruel  brutality  towards  his  un- 
offending wife.  But  he  soon  removed  to  his  retired  cottage 
on  the  mountain  ;  and  the  screen  of  boards  he  built,  effec- 
tually excluded  all  observation. 

I  listened  to  this  melancholy  history  with  the  deepest  sym- 
pathy for  the  unfortunate  girl,  now  a  helpless  mother.  She 
had  sought  no  assistance  from  the  neighbors,  and  few  visited 
her,  partly  because  they  dreaded  her  husband,  and  partly 
because  she  herself  did  not  encourage  them.  But  some  com- 
passionate persons  sent  her  provisions  from  time  to  time. 

While  I  looked  at  the  little  dwelling  which  was  now  the 
scene  of  so  much  misery,  with  an  aching  heart  for  the  count- 
less victims  of  this  dreadful  vice,  a  bright  flash  suddenly 
shot  up  from  the  roof  of  the  hut,  while  at  the  same  time  a 
volume  of  smoke  poured  from  the  chimney  and  upper  win- 
dows. At  the  same  moment  a  female  figure  rushed  from 
behind  the  screen  before  mentioned,  clasping  an  infant  to 
her  breast,  and  dragging  along  a  child  of  about  four  years 
of  age,  and  rapidly  descended  the  slope  of  the  mountain. 
Not  many  paces  behind,  her  husband  followed,  calling  upon 
her  with  shouts  and  execrations  to  return ;  but  his  evident 
intoxication  rendered  it  impossible  for  him  to  equal  the  speed 
of  his  flying  wife ;  and  well  was  it  for  her,  for  a  large  knife 
was  in  his  hand,  which  he  brandished  with  frightful  mena- 
ces. In  less  time  than  it  would  take  to  narrate  what  passed, 
several  of  the  neighbors  had  run  to  meet  her.  Just  as  she 
reached  the  stream,  through  which  she  rushed  with  both 
children  in  her  arms,  then  sank  exhausted  on  the  bank,  they 
crowded  round  her  with  eager  offers  of  assistance. 


120 


THE   REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


B.  now  came  up,  heedless  of  the  men  and  women,  who 
regarded  him  with  looks  of  fear  and  horror.  He  had  drop- 
ped the  knife,  but  had  not  changed  his  threatening  tone ; 
and  with  shocking  imprecations  re-ordered  his  wife  to  "get 
up,  and  come  home  this  instant  !" 

The  poor  woman  uttered  no  reply — indeed  she  was  hardly- 
capable  of  speech  ;  but  the  miller,  a  sturdy  man,  answered 
for  her  that  she  should  go  no  more  to  the  home  of  a  villain 
who  had  nearly  killed  her.  These  words  provoked  B.  to 
unbounded  fury ;  he  rushed  upon  the  man  who  had  spoken 
them  with  such  violence  as  to  throw  him  off  his  guard,  and 
would  have  strangled  him  but  for  the  interference  of  others. 
When  he  found  himself  overpowered  by  superior  strength, 
he  revenged  himself  by  the  most  fearful  curses,  vented  espe- 
cially on  his  poor  wife,  whom  again,  with  abusive  epithets, 
he  ordered  to  "go  home,  and  not  expose  herself  in  this  ridi- 
culous manner !" 

"  No,  Walter,"  said  his  wife,  rising  at  last,  and  confronting 
him  with  pale  but  determined  face  :  "  no — I  will  not  return 
to  you.  I  could  have  borne,  as  I  have  long  done,  your  harsh- 
ness and  violence  towards  me  ;  but  you  have  this  night  raised 
your  hand  against  the  lives  of  these  children  ;  and,  as  it  is 
my  duty  before  God  to  protect  them,  I  leave  you  forever !" 

Whatever  reply  the  drunkard  might  have  made,  it  was 
drowned  in  the  indignant  clamors  of  the  bystanders,  and  he 
was  hurried  off  to  jail.  His  wife  was  cared  for  by  her  sym- 
pathising female  acquaintance,  and  soon  provided  with  a 
permanent  situation,  where  by  the  labor  of  her  hands  she 
could  support  herself  and  her  little  ones.  And  soon,  very 
soon,  did  her  changed  appearance  bear  witness  to  the  im- 
provement. She  became  contented  and  even  cheerful ;  and 
the  playful  caresses  of  her  children  beguiled  her  of  many  sad 
thoughts. 

When  B.  awoke  from  his  intoxication  in  prison,  the  recol- 
lection of  what  he  had  done,  overwhelmed  him  with  shame 
and  remorse.  He  sent  for  one  of  his  neighbors,  and  entreated 
him  to  go  on  his  part  to  his  injured  wife,  supplicate  her  for- 
giveness, and  pledge  the  most  solemn  promises  of  future 


THE  REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


321 


amendment.  Jane  wept  much ;  she  forgave  him  from  her 
heart,  as  she  prayed  God  he  might  be  forgiven  ;  but  she  could 
not,  dared  not  trust  his  oft-violated  word,  and  sacrifice  her 
children.  Her  determination  was  fixed ;  and  for  weeks  to- 
gether, though  with  a  bleeding  heart,  she  returned  the  same 
answer  to  the  entreaties  of  her  repentant  husband.  She  dared 
not  even  see  him,  lest  her  resolution  might  be  shaken. 

When  at  last  B,  was  discharged  from  jail,  full  of  indig- 
nation at  what  he  termed  the  cruel  obstinacy  of  his  wife,  he 
made  no  effort  to  see  her  or  the  children  ;  but — after  shutting 
himself  up  a  month  or  two  in  the  cottage,  which  had  been 
saved,  by  timely  attention,  from  being  burned  on  the  night 
of  Jane's  escape — he  departed,  no  one  knew  whither.  He 
left  a  reproachful  letter  to  his  wife,  professing  himself  driven 
to  desperation,  and  laying  on  her  the  blame  of  his  future 
crimes.  No  furniture  of  any  value  was  found  in  the  house, 
the  greater  part  having  been  disposed  of  to  procure  food 
and — liquor* 

Two  years  after  this  occurrence,  (I  have  the  particulars 
from  a  friend,)  a  crowd  was  assembled  round  the  jail  in  the 

little  town  of  .    A  murder,  under  the  most  appalling 

circumstances,  had  been  committed  in  the  neighborhood : 
a  man  to  whom  suspicion  attached  had  been  arrested,  and, 
after  strict  examination,  committed  for  trial.  Particulars 
that  had  transpired  left  no  doubt  of  his  guilt  on  the  minds 
of  the  people ;  and  it  was  with  suppressed  execrations  that 
the  multitude  followed  the  suspected  felon  to  prison.  When 
he  disappeared  from  their  sight  within  the  gloomy  walls,  the 
popular  rage  broke  out  in  groans  and  murmurs.  One  wo- 
man, young  and  interesting  in  appearance,  who  had  listened 
with  undisguised  eagerness  to  a  knot  of  idlers  discussing  the 
case,  walked  away  when  they  ended  their  conference,  and, 
presenting  herself  at  the  door  of  the  magistrate  who  had 
conducted  the  examination,  asked  leave  to  speak  with  him. 
It  was  the  wife  of  B.  She  had  seen  her  husband  led  to  jail, 
loaded  with  the  most  terrible  suspicions,  and  she  came  to 
have  her  worst  fears  allayed  or  confirmed.  The  magistrate 
soothed  her  by  assuring  her  that  the  evidence  against  B., 


322 


THE  REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


though  strong,  was  only  circumstantial,  and  by  no  means 
absolutely  proved  his  guilt.  It  was  impossible  to  say  what 
might  be  the  event  of  the  trial ;  but  there  was  ground  for 
hope.  Poor  Jane  clung  to  this  hope  :  "  Oh,  sir,"  sobbed  she, 
"  if  he  is  guilty,  and  must  die,  it  is  I  who  have  murdered  him  ' 
I  deserted  him,  when  all  the  world  cast  him  out !" 

When  the  unhappy  wife  returned  home,  it  was  to  give  way 
to  the  bitter  anguish  of  remorse — to  weep  and  sob  all  night 
as  if  her  heart  would  break.  "  How  have  I  been  able  to  kneel 
night  and  morning  to  ask  pardon  of  God,"  she  cried  to  her- 
self, "  when  I  refuse  my  aid  to  save  a  fellow  being  from  de- 
struction ?  And  yet — these  little  ones,"  and  she  hung  over 
her  sleeping  children — the  fair  boy,  with  bright  cheek  shaded 
by  his  clustering  curls ;  and  the  sweet  dark-eyed  girl,  so  like 
him  before  excess  had  marred  his  manly  beauty  !  Could 
she  have  brought  these  innocent  ones  into  wretchedness — 
perhaps  guilt?  Had  she  not  done  right  to  snatch  them 
from  ruin,  even  by  abandoning  their  father?  She  knelt  once 
more,  and  prayed  for  guidance,  for  discernment  of  the  right ; 
and  her  mind  was  calmed. 

Before  noon  the  next  day,  the  jail  was  again  visited  by 
groups  of  idlers,  gazing  into  the  window  of  B.'s  cell,  which 
looked  upon  the  street.  It  might  be  that  the  prisoner  was 
maddened  by  their  taunts  and  derision  ;  he  was  leaping  about 
with  frantic  gestures,  clapping  his  hands  and  laughing  im- 
moderately, or  thrusting  his  face  between  the  bars  to  grin 
defiance  at  his  tormentors.  Suddenly  a  woman — her  face 
concealed  by  a  drooping  bonnet  and  thick  veil — glided  through 
the  crowd,  and,  reaching  up  to  the  window,  offered  a  parcel 
to  the  prisoner.  He  grasped  it  eagerly,  with  a  wistful  look, 
but  the  woman  did  not  stay  to  be  recognized.  It  was  ob- 
served, as  she  hastened  away,  that  her  steps  tottered,  and 
she  held  down  her  head,  apparently  overcome  by  emotion. 
Well  might  the  fearfully  changed  countenance  of  the  accused 
appal  one  who  had  known  him  in  better  days  ! 

The  parcel  contained  a  portion  of  food  more  palatable  than 
is  usually  allowed  to  prisoners,  and  a  small  pocket  Bible — 
the  book  B.  had  once  prized — the  gift  of  his  dying  mother. 


THE  REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


323 


His  name  was  written  on  the  first  page  in  her  hand.  Many 
times  in  the  week,  always  at  dusk,  did  the  same  compas- 
sionate visitor  stand  at  the  grated  window,  and  offer  food  or 
books  to  the  prisoner,  who  was  evidently  affected  by  the  kind 
attention.  He  ceased  his  idiotic  dancing  and  laughing  ;  he 
answered  nothing  more  to  the  upbraidicgs  of  vagrants  with- 
out ;  and  those  who  looked  into  his  window,  saw  him  most 
frequently  seated  quietly  at  the  table,  reading,  or  with  his 
head  on  his  hand  in  deep  thought.  With  thankfulness  un- 
speakable Jane  saw  the  change  ;  but  her  joy  was  dashed 
with  sadness,  when  on  one  of  her  visits  the  prisoner  besought 
her,  with  piteous  entreaty,  to  bring  him  a  bottle  of  brandy. 

It  now  occurred  to  the  wife  to  do  what  she  had  never 
dared  when  B.  was  at  home — to  force  on  his  perusal  some 
tracts  containing  the  most  awful  warnings  against  intemper- 
ance, and  encouragements  to  the  victim  to  struggle  for  re- 
covery. He  had  no  other  books  to  beguile  the  time ;  he 
could  not  now,  as  formerly,  rail  at,  or  punish  her,  even  had 
he  any  suspicion  who  she  was :  what  might  ensue  if  he  read 
them  ?  Her  effort  was  crowned  with  success.  Not  a  week 
had  passed,  when  the  abject  entreaty  for  liquor — which  had 
been  urged  night  after  night — was  dropped,  to  be  renewed 
no  more.  Jane's  heart  throbbed  when  she  thought  of  this ; 
but,  alas !  even  if  he  were  really  reformed,  would  he  live  to 
prove  himself  so? 

Thus  days  rolled  on,  and  the  time  for  the  trial  arrived. 
The  prisoner  had  communicated  with  his  counsel ;  witnesses 
had  been  sent  for ;  the  principal  lawyer  engaged  in  the  pro- 
secution had  unfolded  the  chain  of  evidence  by  which  his 
guilt  was  to  be  proved  ;  the  court  was  to  open  next  morning. 
The  accused  had  received  some  of  his  former  acquaintance 
during  the  day — and  as  night  drew  near,  he  was  alone.  On 
his  table  lay  a  letter  he  had  just  written.  He  was  pacing  the 
room,  tranquil,  but  with  a  mind  filled  with  painful  thoughts. 
The  jailer  opened  the  door,  announced  a  name,  received 
the  prisoner's  startled  assent ;  and  the  next  moment  the  long 
estranged  husband  and  wife  were  together.  B.  did  not  stir ; 
he  was  petrified  by  surprise ;  but  Jane  rushed  to  him  ;  her 


324 


THE  REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


arms  were  round  his  neck,  and  she  wept  aloud.  Her  hus- 
band was  moved,  but  struggled  apparently  with  his  pride : 
he  unclasped  her  arms,  stepped  back  a  little,  and  looked 
earnestly  at  her. 

Sad  indeed  the  contrast  between  the  two :  the  man  almost 
spectral  in  aspect,  haggard,  wan,  emaciated — not  even  the 
shadow  of  his  former  self ;  the  woman  blooming  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  almost  maiden  beauty  !  No  unhallowed  vigils,  or 
excess,  or  evil  passions,  had  stamped  their  traces  on  her  brow, 
or  marred  the  symmetry  of  her  form ;  and  the  very  purity 
and  tenderness  that  shone  in  her  expression  rebuked  the 
conscious  sinner  as  loudly  as  if  an  angel's  tongue  had  pro- 
claimed his  degradation  !  As  he  shrank  back  and  stood  thus 
silent,  Jane  stretched  out  her  hands  beseechingly — "Oh, 
Walter !"  she  cried,  "  have  you  not  yet  forgiven  me  ?" 

"  Forgiven  you,  Jane  ?  Oh,  Heaven,  what  a  wretch  am  I P 

"  I  was  wrong,  Walter,  to  desert  you,  even  at  the  worst ; 
but  oh,  say  you  do  not  bear  hard  thoughts  toward  me !" 

"Tell  me,  Jane — is  it  you  who  brought  me  these?" — 
pointing  to  the  books. 

"  Yes,  Walter — for  I  thought  you  would  read  them  now ; 
and  » 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  sobs  of  her  husband  :  he  sank 
on  his  knees  as  if  to  thank  her ;  but  to  prevent  that,  she 
knelt  with  him,  and  prayed  for  him  in  the  deep  emotion  of 
her  heart. 

When  B.  was  sufficiently  calm  he  asked  after  his  children, 
and,  pointing  to  the  table,  said — "There,  Jane,  is  a  letter 
I  had  written  you,  in  a  better  spirit,  I  trust,  than  the  last. 
If  it  were  God's  will  I  should  live  longer,  I  might  make  a 
better  husband  and  father ;  but  I  dare  not  think  of  that 
now." 

Jane  longed  to  ask  one  question,  but  her  tongue  refused 
to  utter  the  words.  Her  husband  seemed  to  read  the  mean- 
ing of  her  anxious  look. 

"  Before  high  Heaven,"  said  he,  "  I  declare  to  you  that 
T  am  innocent  of  the  crime  for  which  I  shall  be  tried  to-mor- 
row !" 


THE  REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


325 


A  shriek  of  joy,  scarce  suppressed,  burst  from  the  wife : 
she  clasped  her  hands  and  raised  them  upwards ;  gratitude 
denied  her  speech. 

"Then  you  will  live  !"  she  gasped  at  length. 

"  No,  Jane,  I  dare  not  hope  it :  and  I  deserve  to  die.  I  am 
guiltless  of  murder — but  what  have  I  been  to  you  and  my 
children  ?  What  have  I  been  these  last  years  ? — a  reckless 
outcast — my  own  destroyer — the  enemy  of  God  !  I  tell  you, 
Jane — I  have  long  looked  to  the  gallows  as  the  end  of  my 
career,  and  I  have  come  to  it  at  last !  But  I  have  mastered 
the  tyrant  that  brought  me  to  this — yes,  I  have !"  He 
laughed  convulsively  as  he  said  this — and  his  wife  turned 
pale.  "  Look  here,  Jane — look  here  !" — and,  lifting  up  the 
coverlit  of  his  bed,  he  produced  several  bottles  of  brandy  and 
whiskey.    They  were  full ! 

"I  asked  you  to  give  me  liquor,"  he  continued,  "and  you 
would  not ;  but  others,  less  merciful,  brought  these  to  me  ! 
Do  not  shudder,  and  grow  so  pale,  Jane.  I  swear  to  you, 
I  have  not  tasted  one  drop,  though  I  have  had  them  a  fort- 
night !  Those  books  saved  me,  for  I  read  of  even  worse  cases 
than  mine.  I  took  an  oath,  Jane,  on  the  Bible  you  brought 
me  the  first  night — my  mother's  Bible — that  I  would  never 
taste  liquor  again :  and  I  kept  these,  to  try  if  I  could  keep 
my  resolution." 

"  Oh,  Walter !"  was  all  the  sobbing  wife  could  say — but 
her  tears  were  those  of  joy. 

"  You  know,  Jane,  I  was  always  fond  of  books ;  and  if  I 
had  not  been  a  slave  to  drink,  I  might  have  been  fit  society 
even  for  the  judges  who  are  to  try  me  to-morrow.  Oh,  if 
I  could  only  live  my  life  over !  But  it  is  too  late  now  ;  yet 
it  is  something,  is  it  not,"— and  his  pale  face  kindled — "  to 
think  that  I  can,  that  I  have  overcome  the  fiend  at  last  ? — 
that  I  shall  not  die  a  drunkard  !  Remember  that,  and  let 
everybody  know  it.  I  have  it  written  here  in  your  letter, 
God  will  remember  it,  will  he  not,  when  my  soul  stands  be- 
fore him  in  judgment?" 

"  Oh,  my  husband,  you  shall  not  die !"  cried  the  wife,  as 
with  streaming  tears  she  clasped  him  again  to  her  arms 


326 


THE  REFORMED  INEBRIATE. 


"The  will, of  God  be  done — and  that  I  can  say  now  sin- 
cerely :  I  am  willing  to  go.  The  Bible  says,  no  drunkard 
shall  enter  his  kingdom  ;  but  I  am  not  a  drunkard.  I  am  a 
degraded  wretch — an  outcast  of  men — about  to  die  a  felon's 
death  ;  but  I  feel  a  triumph,  Jane — a  joy  unspeakable — that 
I  have  conquered  my  worst  enemy.  I  thank  God  that  he 
has  supported  me  through  the  struggle.  It  was  a  terrible 
one  !" 

I  need  not  at  length  record  this  interview.  I  need  say 
no  more  than  that,  after  weeks  of  the  most  agonizing  sus- 
pense and  anxiety,  Jane  had  the  happiness  to  hear  that  her 
husband  was  fully  acquitted  of  the  crime  laid  to  his  charge — 
to  receive  him  once  more,  and  welcome  him  to  a  home.  For 
months  he  lay  helpless,  the  victim  of  a  wasting  sickness  ; 
but  his  wife  worked  day  and  night  to  procure  him  comforts, 
and  her  children  played  round  his  bed;  and  in  her  heart 
was  what  the  poet  sweetly  terms  "a  hymn  of  thankfulness" 
never  silent.  When  he  recovered,  he  found  it  not  hard  to 
bear  her  company  in  her  cheerful  toil ;  and  never  would  he 
suffer  himself  to  be  persuaded  to  touch  what  once  had  proved 
his  bane,  and  so  nearly  brought  him  to  an  ignominious  end. 

It  is  not  long  since  I  heard  an  address  of  touching  elo- 
quence, on  the  subject  of  Temperance,  delivered  by  Walter 

B  .    There  was  truth  in  every  word  of  it,  for  he  deeply 

felt  what  he  uttered  ;  and  it  came  home  to  many  a  heart, 
and  drew  tears  from  many  an  eye.  He  told  his  own  history, 
and  described  himself  as  once  the  most  wretched  and  lost 
among  the  victims  of  that  vice ;  and  yet  there  had  been 
others  more  lost  than  he,  who  recovered.  It  was  this,  he 
said,  that  first  inspired  him  with  hope  for  himself. 


"  Never  give  up,"  is  an  excellent  maxim ;  but  it  means 
not  that  we  should  always  hold  on  in  the  same  way,  as  the 
many  take  it,  but  in  some  way  :  in  the  same,  if  we  can,  and 
find  it  good ;  but.  in  some  other,  if  we  cannot,  and  find  it  better. 


TO    ONE    I  LOVE. 


When  the  fair  sun  his  smile  displays, 
And  gilds  the  earth  with  gladd'ning  rays; 
When  Nature  wakes,  and  sweet  birds  sing 
Their  softest  praises  to  the  spring — 

I  think  on  thee  ! 

Or,  standing  'midst  the  glitt'ring  crowd, 
Where  mirth  and  revelry  are  loud ; 
And  hearts  are  lost  in  pleasure's  maze, 
Or  'midst  the  spell  of  beauty's  gaze — 

I  think  on  thee ! 

Or,  when  the  pensive  moon's  pale  beam 
Show'rs  silver  lustre  o'er  the  stream, 
And  thoughts  of  former  days  arise  * 
Beneath  the  silent,  starry  skies — 

I  think  on  thee  ! 

When  music  bids  her  'witching  note 
From  some  lone  harp  in  sadness  float, 
And  wakes  the  soul's  soft  pulses  then 
To  bliss  no  tongue  can  tell  again, 

I  think  on  thee  ! 

Or,  in  the  gloom  of  midnight's  hour, 
When  all  is  hush'd,  and  fancy's  power, 
(Whose  dictates  we  can  ne'er  control,) 
Sheds  thoughts  of  terror  o'er  the  soul — 

I  think  on  thee  ! 

That  blessed  thought,  where'er  I  go, 
'Midst  bale  or  bliss,  or  joy  or  woe, 
Pursues  me  still,  and  soothes  the  smart 
That  passing  sorrow  will  impart — 

To  think  on  thee ! 


THE   DREAMS    OF  LIFE. 


All  men  are  dreamers  :  from  the  hour 
When  reason  first  exerts  its  power, 
Unmindful  of  its  bitter  sting, 
To  some  deceiving  hope  we  cling — 

That  hope 's  a  dream ! 

The  brazen  trumpet's  clangor  gives 
The  joy  on  which  the  warrior  lives; 
And  at  his  injured  country's  call, 
He  leaves  his  home,  his  friends,  his  all — 
For  glory's  dream ! 

The  lover  hangs  on  some  bright  eye, 
And  dreams  of  bliss  in  every  sigh ; 
But  brightest  eyes  are  deep  in  guile — 
And  he  who  trusts  their  fickle  smile, 

Trusts  in  a  dream ! 

The  poet — nature's  darling  child — 
By  fame's  all-dazzling  star  beguiled, 
Sings  love's  alternate  hope  and  fear — 
Paints  visions  which  his  heart  holds  dear — 
And  thus  he  dreams ! 

And  there  are  those  who  build  their  joys 
On  proud  ambition's  gilded  toys, 
Who  feign  would  climb  the  craggy  height 
Whose  power  displays  its  splendid  light — 
But  dreaming,  fall ! 

Whilst  others,  'midst  the  giddy  throng 
Of  pleasure's  victims,  sweep  along ; 
Till  feelings  damp'ti  and  satiate  hearts, 
Too  worn  to  feel  when  bliss  departs — 
Prove  all  a  dream ! 

And  when  that  chilly  call  of  fear, 
Death's  mandate  hurtles  in  the  ear, 
We  find,  would  we  retrace  the  past, 
E'en  life  at  best  now  fading  fast — 
Is  all  a  dream ! 


Jtlotfjers  avto  Daughters  of  tl)e  Bible. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA. 


BY   REV.    S.   D.  BURCHARD. 


It  is  high  noon — and  a  traveler,  care-worn  and  weary, 
is  seated  beside  an  ancient  well  of  Samaria.  He  has  been 
expelled  from  Jerusalem  and  from  its  gorgeous  temple,  where 
bleeding  sacrifices  had  been  offered  and  costly  rites  celebra- 
ted— all  typical  of  himself.  But  when  he  came,  as  predicted, 
in  the  form  of  a  man,  and  in  the  garb  of  poverty,  and  not, 
as  expected  by  the  Jews,  in  the  pomp  and  splendor  of  the 
world,  they  rejected  both  his  person  and  his  mission.  He 
had  healed  their  sick,  he  had  entered  their  abodes -of  poverty 
with  the  words  of  blessing,  he  had  raised  the  dead,  he  had 
pointed  to  his  works,  as  the  undeniable  proofs  of  his  divine 
mission ;  but  all  this  failed  to  convince  them,  and  they  were 
determined  to  drive  him  from  their  city  and  countiy.  He 
was  not  afraid  of  the  terrors  of  men,  but  his  hour  had  not 
yet  come ;  "  and  he  left  Judea,  and  departed  again  into 
Galilee,  and  he  must  needs  pass  through  Samaria."  This 
was  a  region  of  country  lying  between  Jerusalem  and  Gali- 
lee ;  so  that  in  passing  from  one  to  the  other,  the  direct  course 
was  to  go  through  Samaria.  The  capital  of  the  country 
was  Samaria,  formerly  a  large  and  opulent  city.  It  was 
situated  about  fifteen  miles  to  the  north-west  of  the  city  of 
Shechem,  or  Sychar,  and  about  forty  miles  to  the  north  of 
Jerusalem.  Samaria  is  distinguished  in  Biblical  history  as 
the  chosen  abode  of  the  ten  tribes,  who  revolted,  and  formed 
a  separate  kingdom  under  Jeroboam.  This  people  soon 
degenerated  into  idolatry,  retaining  some  forms  of  the  temple 


330 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA. 


worship,  blended  with  the  rites  of  heathenism.    They  pro- 
fessed great  reverence  for  the  five  books  of  Moses,  but  reject 
ed  the  Prophets ;  and  their  religion  therefore  was  a  mixture 
of  perverted  Judaism  and  idolatry. 

As  Jesus  "  sat  thus  on  the  well,"  a  stranger,  covered  with 
the  dust,  and  weary  with  the  toils  of  travel,  "  there  cometh 
a  woman  of  Samaria  to  draw  water."  Cherishing  the  anti- 
pathies and  the  prejudices  of  her  people,  and  perceiving  from 
the  appearance  of  the  stranger  that  he  was  a  Jew,  she  cast 
upon  him  a  suspicious  and  scornful  look,  and  was  about  to 
accomplish  her  task  and  retire,  when  Jesus  ventured  to  ad- 
dress her  and  to  say,  "  Give  me  to  drink."  She  had  not 
learned  that  a  cup  of  cold  water  given  in  the  name  of  a  dis- 
ciple would  secure  a  reward ;  and  she  immediately  commenced 
an  attack  upon  his  peculiarities  as  a  Jew,  and  expressed  her 
marvel  that  he  should  ask  a  favor  of  her,  being  a  Samaritan. 
Political  causes  first,  and  religious  differences  afterward, 
had  conspired  to  produce  a  deep  and  bitter  animosity  between 
the  two  nations.  The  Jews  were  accustomed  to  regard  the 
Samaritans  as  more  hopeless  even  than  the  heathen,  and 
refused  them  the  courtesies  and  common  civilities  of  life. 
But  Jesus,  though  a  Jew,  had  no  prejudices  to  gratify  and 
no  animosities  to  express.  He  loved,  with  equal  warmth, 
the  race,  irrespective  of  national  or  social  distinctions.  He 
came  to  break  down  the  division-walls,  and  unite  the  human 
family  in  the  bonds  of  a  loving  brotherhood.  He  perceived 
that  there  was  an  opportunity,  through  the  instrumentality 
of  this  degenerate  daughter  of  an  apostate  people,  of  forward- 
ing the  designs  of  his  mission.  She  was  a  humble  woman, 
and,  as  the  sequel  of  her  history  shows,  a  bad  woman  ;  but 
still,  she  needed  what  she  had  no  intention  of  receiving — she 
needed  water,  not  from  Jacob's  well,  but  from  the  well-springs 
of  eternal  life.  At  this  juncture,  Jesus  gives  her  some  inti- 
mation of  the  nature  of  his  person  and  the  design  of  his 
mission ;  "  and  said  unto  her,  1  If  thou  knewest  the  gift  of 
God,  and  who  it  is  that  saith  to  thee,  Give  me  to  drink,  thou 
wouldest  have  asked  of  him,  and  he  would  have  given  thee 
living  water.' "    He  employed  the  beautiful  and  expressive 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA. 


331 


figure  of  water  to  represent  the  purity,  the  freeness,  the 
refreshing  and  purifying  influence  of  the  blessing  he  was 
able  to  confer.  But  the  saying  of  Jesus  was  dark  to  her ; 
she  had  no  conception  of  better  water  than  could  be  drawn 
from  Jacob's  well ;  he  himself  had  drank  there,  his  children, 
and  his  cattle.  She  prided  herself  upon  being  a  descendant 
of  Jacob ;  and  this  well  had  come  down,  through  thronging 
and  cherished  associations,  as  a  gift  and  a  blessing  from  the 
venerable  patriarch  to  the  Samaritans.  She  felt  almost 
indignant  at  the  suggestion,  that  he,  a  wayfarer  and  a  Jew, 
should  presume  to  furnish  water  purer  and  fresher  than  that 
which  she  was  accustomed  to  draw.  And  besides,  if  he 
thought  to  draw  from  this  well,  he  was  destitute  of  the  neces- 
sary means :  "  Whence,  then,"  says  she,  "  hast  thou  that 
living  water?"  Jesus  now  introduces  a  beautiful  contrast 
between  the  water  of  Jacob's  well  and  that  which  he  was 
able  to  furnish :  "Whosoever  drinketh  of  this  water,  shall 
thirst  again."  It  only  affords  a  temporary  relief — a  momen- 
tary gratification.  It  is  neither  a  satisfying  nor  a  permanent 
good.  "But  whosoever  drinketh  of  the  water  that  I  shall 
give  him,  shall  never  thirst ;  but  the  water  that  I  shall  give 
him,  shall  be  in  him  a  well  of  water  springing  up  into  ever- 
lasting life."  Here  there  is  a  real  good,  a  permanent  bless- 
ing. The  selfish  desires  of  the  woman  are  excited,  but  still 
she  has  no  conception  of  the  rich  bestowment.  Her  mind 
is  carnal,  her  thoughts  are  groveling  and  earthly,  and  she 
saith  unto  him,  "Sir,  give  me  this  water,  that  I  thirst  not, 
neither  come  hither  to  draw  "  This  language  implies,  that 
she  had  no  just  apprehension  of  the  meaning  of  the  Saviour's 
words,  and  no  preparation  of  heart  for  the  reception  of  the 
blessing  which  he  came  to  bestow.  She  would  like  to  be 
relieved  from  the  fatigues  of  her  daily  toil.  She  would  like 
a  water  possessing  such  remarkable  qualities  as  to  supersede 
the  annoyance  of  thirst,  and  the  necessity  of  repairing  to 
the  well  for  the  purpose  of  meeting  her  urgent  and  every-day 
wants.  But  we  doubt  whether  she  had  any  confidence  in 
Jesus,  as  being  able  to  furnish  such  water,  and  her  request 
was  probably  the  language  of  irony  rather  than  the  simple 


332 


THE  WOMAN  OP  SAMARIA. 


and  earnest  desire  of  her  heart.  Jesus  now  with  the  most 
consummate  skill,  and  without  any  apparent  design,  proceeds 
to  expose  her  guilt,  and  her  manner  of  life.  "  Go,"  says  he, 
"call  thy  husband,  and  come  hither."  With  a  careless 
indifference  she  replied,  " I  have  no  husband."  Jesus  said 
unto  her,  "Thou  hast  well  said,  CI  have  no  husband  ;'  for 
thou  hast  had  five  husbands,  and  he  whom  thou  now  hast 
is  not  thy  husband  ;  in  that  saidst  thou  truly."  The  woman 
is  startled  at  this  announcement ;  not  that  it  is  strange  or 
new  to  her,  but  that  a  stranger,  whom  she  had  casually  met, 
who  had  no  intercourse  with  her  countrymen,  and  conse- 
quently could  not  have  been  informed  of  the  facts  of  her 
previous  history,  should  thus  be  able  to  mirror  forth  the  char- 
acteristic features  of  her  life.  Though  he  was  gentle  and 
unostentatious,  yet  there  was  an  earnest  and  quiet  dignity 
in  his  manner  which  gave  tremendous  power  to  this  reve- 
lation of  her  guilt.  She  felt  condemned  for  her  sin,  and 
overwhelmed  with  the  conviction  that  she  was  in  the  presence 
of  One  who  knew  her  whole  life.  She  could  not  deny  the 
allegation  touching  her  present  criminal  connection,  or  her 
past  irregular  conduct ;  and  hence,  with  troubled  emotions, 
she  replied,  "  Sir,  I  perceive  that  thou  art  a  prophet," — a  per- 
son gifted  with  superior  knowledge,  and  favored  with  secret 
revelations  from  the  Most  High.  Stung  by  self-mortification 
and  reproach,  she  desired  to  divert  the  mind  of  the  Saviour 
from  conversation  so  painful  as  that  touching  her  personal 
guilt,  and  endeavored  to  draw  him  into  a  controversy  as  to 
the  appropriate  place  of  worship.  "Our  fathers  worshipped 
in  this  mountain ;  and  ye  say,  that  in  Jerusalem  is  the  place 
where  men  ought  to  worship."  This  had  long  been  a  vexed 
question  between  the  Jews  and  Samaritans — the  former 
maintaining  that  Mount  Zion  was  the  spot  on  which  the 
temple  was  to  be  erected.  Accordingly,  after  their  return 
from  their  captivity  in  Babylon,  and  by  the  authority  of  God, 
they  set  about  the  work.  The  Samaritans,  at  first,  proposed 
.  to  assist  them ;  but  the  Jews,  perceiving  that  they  were 
actuated  by  political  motives  rather  than  from  any  love  for 
true  religion,  declined  their  offer.    This  greatly  exasperated 


THE  WOMAN  OP  SAMARIA. 


333 


the  Samaritans,  and,  with  Sanballat  at  their  head,  endeavor- 
ed to  defeat  the  efforts  of  Nehemiah  in  building  the  walls. 
Foiled  in  this,  they  at  length  obtained  leave  of  the  Persian 
monarch  to  build  a  temple  for  themslves.  This  was  erected 
on  Mount  Gerisim,  a  short  distance  from  Sychar ;  and  they 
strenuously  Contended,  that  that  was  the  spot  designated  by 
Moses  as  the  place  where  the  nation  should  worship.  Priests 
were  selected  irrespective  of  the  Levitical  order,  rites  were 
celebrated,  and  thus  the  religion  of  the  Samaritans  was  per- 
petuated, and  became,  of  course,  a  constant  source  of  quarrel 
and  alienation  between  the  two  nations.  The  Saviour,  how- 
ever, was  not  to  be  drawn  into  an  unimportant  matter  in 
relation  to  the  place  or  the  formalities  of  worship.  His  aim 
was  to  impress  the  mind  of  the  woman  with  the  importance 
of  personal  religion — spiritual  worship — superior  to  any 
which  consists  in  mere  outward  form  or  ceremony.  Hence 
his  reply  :  "  Woman,  believe  me,  the  hour  cometh,  when  ye 
shall  neither  in  this  mountain,  nor  yet  at  Jerusalem,  worship 
the  Father."  The  dispensation  of  forms  and  onerous  services 
is  about  to  close — a  new  and  better  one  is  about  to  commence, 
when  li  the  true  worshippers  will  worship  the  Father  in  spirit 
and  in  truth  ;  for  the  Father  seeketh  such  to  worship  him." 
He  needs  no  ecclesiastical  pomp  of  pillars  and  fretted  roof  as 
the  place,  or  golden  censers  and  gorgeous  vestments  as  the 
means  of  acceptable  worship.  He  demands  the  worship  of 
the  inner  man  ;  and  he  is  the  most  acceptable  worshipper 
who  presents  to  him  "  the  offering  of  a  broken  heart  and  a 
contrite  spirit ;  for  with  such  sacrifices  God  is  well  pleased." 
The  broad,  all-brilliant  arch  of  heaven,  or  the  quiet  grove, 
vocal  with  the  carol  of  bird-voices,  or  even  the  humble  cot- 
tage, may  be  the  temple  where  such  sacrifices  are  offered. 
In  addressing  the  true  worshippers,  the  apostle  says,  "  Know 
ye  not  that  ye  are  the  temple  of  God,  and  that  the  Spirit  of 
God  dvvelleth  in  you  ?  For  the  temple  of  God  is  holy,  which 
temple  ye  are."  There  were  those  in  the  days  of  our  Saviour 
who  were  continually  chanting  the  praises  of  the  temple ;  • 
whose  religion  consisted  in  a  heartless  observance  of  forms 
and  outward  display  ;  and  there  are  those  in  these  latter  days 


334 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA. 


who  are  ever  speaking  of  the  church — the  beauty  of  its  wor- 
ship and  the  regular  succession  of  its  priesthood.  Now,  Je- 
sus, by  his  reply  to  the  woman  of  Samaria,  would  teach  us, 
that  forms  and  chants  and  regular  successions  are  of  vastly 
less  importance  than  the  worship  of  the  heart.  Not  that  he 
was  indifferent  to  an  appropriate  form  ;  for  everything  in  his 
kingdom  must  be  done  decently  and  in  order.  He  recognized 
the  Hebrew  ritual  as  of  Divine  appointment — as  adapted 
to  facilitate  the  purposes  of  worship,  and  through  which,  a 
knowledge  of  God  could  be  secured  and  retained.  The  form 
of  the  Samaritan  worship  had  never  received  the  Divine 
sanction,  and  its  tendency  was  only  in  the  direction  of  dark- 
ness and  error.  Hence  he  says  to  the  woman,  "  Ye  worship 
ye  know  not  what :  we  know  what  we  worship  ;  for  salvation 
is  of  the  Jews."  God  had  selected  them  out  of  all  the  nations 
of  the  earth  as  the  depositories  of  his  word,  as  the  honored 
agency  for  preserving  and  perpetuating  the  knowledge  of 
himself  in  a  dark  and  degenerate  world.  The  Samaritans, 
on  the  contrary,  had  received  no  such  honor,  but  were  aliens 
from  the  truth,  and  had  built  a  temple,  and  adopted  a  cor- 
rupted form  of  worship,  without  Divine  authority.  Our  Sa- 
viour, therefore,  indirectly  though  really,  settled  the  question 
at  issue  as  to  the  place  of  worsnip ;  yet  so  settled  it,  as  to 
leave  the  impression  that  place  and  form  were  of  less  conse- 
quence than  the  moral  state  of  the  affections. 

The  woman,  though  she  recognized  the  weary  traveler 
before  her  as  a  prophet,  seems  not  to  have  been  satisfied  with 
his  exposition,  and  said  unto  him,  "  I  know  that  Messias 
cometh,  which  is  called  Christ ;  when  he  is  come,  he  will 
tell  us  all  things."  The  Samaritans  receiving,  as  they  did, 
the  Pentateuch,  cherished  the  expectation  of  a  coming  Mes- 
siah. They  believed  that  he  would  instruct  them  more  per- 
fectly as  to  the  manner  of  their  faith  and  worship.  The 
conversation  had  now  reached  that  point  when  a  sublime 
and  startling  announcement  might  be  made.  The  mind  of 
the  woman  had  become  interested  ;  she  had  acknowledged 
that  the  Person  speaking  to  her  was  a  prophet,  and  hence 
truthful  and  worthy  of  confidence  \  she  had  confessed  her 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA. 


belief  in  the  Messiah ;  and  Jesus  could  say  to  her  what  he 
could  not  say  to  the  Jews,  for  they  were  not  able  to  bear  it, 
"  I  that  speak  unto  thee  am  he."  The  truth  flashed  upon 
her  mind  as  from  a  thousand  mirrors.  She  bowed  to  his 
Divine  authority,  and  believed ;  and,  forgetful  of  everything 
else,  and  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy,  "  she  left  her  water-pot,  and 
went  away  into  the  city,  and  saith  to  the  men,  'Come,  see 
a  man  that  told  me  all  things  that  ever  I  did  !  Is  not  this 
the  Christ  V  n  She  was  doubtless  converted  to  the  faith  of 
Jesus ;  yet  she  states  her  faith  modestly,  in  the  form  of  an 
inquiry,  lest  she  should  appear  to  dictate  in  a  matter,  of  all 
others  the  most  important,  and  deserving  the  highest  con- 
sideration. In  the  streets  of  the  city  she  boldly  declared, 
that— 

"  He  told  me  of  things  that  I  deemed  were  unknown 
Save  unto  myself  and  my  chosen  alone; 
And  all  that  I  knew  he  perused  in  my  soul, 
As  it  bowed  to  his  will,  and  confessed  his  control. 

" '  A  Prophet !  a  Prophet !'  I  uttered,  amazed  ; 
'  Our  God  for  his  people  a  Prophet  hath  raised  I 
An  Angel  hath  come  from  the  light  of  his  throne, 
The  Messiah  at  last  to  the  world  to  make  known !' 

"O'erawed  by  his  words,  from  his  presence  I  turned, 
With  my  heart  full  of  thought,  as  it  flutter'd  and  burned 
With  the  weight  of  the  marvels  I  heard  and  I  saw, 
By  that  fountain  whose  water  I  wandered  to  draw. 

"Thus,  thus  have  I  told  what  so  lately  befel 
My  wondering  soul  at  the  Patriarch's  well; 
Where  the  waters,  though  sweet,  as  the  wayfarer  sips, 
Yet  sweeter  the  words  of  that  bright  Stranger's  lips." 

This  simple  testimony  of  the  woman  produced  no  little 
excitement  in  the  city  of  Sychar.  She  preached  Christ  unto 
the  people,  and  their  hearts  seemed  to  have  been  opened  to 
receive  the  truth  ;  for  they  assembled  in  multitudes  at  Jacob's 
well,  and  heard  from  the  lips  of  Jesus  himself  the  wonderful 
works  of  God ;  and  many  believed  on  him,  not  from  the  say- 
ing of  the  woman  merely,  but  they  heard  for  themselves, 
and  knew  that  he  was  indeed  the  Christ,  the  Saviour  of  the 
world. 


336 


THE  WOMAN  OF  SAMARIA. 


From  this  instructive  narrative  some  important  lessons 
may  be  learned. 

We  see  manifested  the  two  natures  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 
He  appeared,  as  he  sat  weary  upon  the  well,  as  a  man.  As 
such,  he  was  subject  to  human  infirmities.  He  wearied  as 
a  man ;  he  thirsted  as  a  man ;  he  hungered  as  a  man,  "for 
his  disciples  were  gone  away  into  the  city  to  buy  meat ;"  he 
possessed  social  sympathies  as  a  man.  If  we  pass  beyond 
the  simple  record  of  the  narrative,  we  find  the  proofs  of  his 
humanity  scattered  all  along  his  history,  from  his  birth  to  his 
death.  He  increased  in  knowledge  and  wisdom  and  stature 
as  a  man ;  he  toiled  and  was  tempted  and  suffered  and  died 
as  a  man.  But  he  was, not  merely  a  man.  He  was  "God 
manifest  in  the  flesh."  He  knew  the  character  of  the  woman 
of  Samaria,  as  God  ;  he  knew  the  thoughts  of  men,  as  God  ; 
he  cast  out  devils,  he  healed  the  sick,  and  raised  the  dead, 
as  a  Divine  Being.  He  confidently  pointed  to  his  works, 
and  said  to  his  accusers,  "  These  are  my  witnesses,"  and  they 
bore  ample  proof  of  the  divinity  of  his  mission.  And  when 
the  woman  of  Samaria  expressed  her  belief  in  a  coming  Mes- 
siah, he  positively  declared,  "  I  that  speak  unto  thee  am  he." 
Could  he  have  been  mistaken  ?  Did  he  not  know  his  own 
nature,  offices,  and  work  ?  He  then,  who  sat  on  the  well 
and  talked  thus  with  the  woman,  was  God-man — "the 
Christ,  the  Saviour  of  the  world." 

We  see  the  nature  of  true  religion.  It  is  not  a  mere  form, 
or  outward  ceremony.  It  is  represented  under  the  figure  of 
water — "  a  well  of  water,  springing  up  into  everlasting  life."" 
It  is  a  purifying  principle — it  makes  men  better,  holier, 
cleansing  them  of  the  impurities  of  an  unholy  life.  It  is  an 
open  and  ample  fountain,  in  which  all  may  wash  and  be 
clean.  It  is  a  satisfying  principle — "  Whosoever  drinketh 
of  the  water  that  I  shall  give  him,  shall  never  thirst."  Men 
drink  at  other  fountains — the  fountain  of  sensual  pleasure — 
the  fountain  of  earthly  abundance  and  popular  applause — 
and  thirst  again.  They  are  not  satisfied  with  temporal  good ; 
it  does  not  make  them  happy.  Give  them  all  that  their 
greedy  imaginations  may  have  coveted — wealth,  fame,  and 


WHAT  THOUGH   ILL  BETIDE  US. 


337 


sensual  gratification — and  they  are  continually  thirsting  for 
more.  Nothing  short  of  true  religion  caa  meet  the  deep, 
strong,  earnest  desires  of  the  human  soul.  This  too  is  an 
active  principle  ;  this  well  of  water  is  continually  "  spring- 
ing up  into  everlasting  life."  The  water  never  becomes  stag- 
nant and  still,  and  consequently  impure  and  unhealthy.  It 
is  a  living-  fountain — making  verdant  and  fruitful  every- 
thing around  it. 


WHAT  THOUGH  ILL  BETIDE  US. 

BY    C.    D.  STUART. 

O!  what  though  ill  betide  us, 

If  those  we  love  are  nigh, 
To  soothe  the  brow  of  sorrow, 

And  calm  the  heaving  sigh? 
One  loving  smile  will  banish 

The  clouds  of  care  and  pain; 
One  loving  word  will  bring  us 

Joy's  sunshine  back  again. 

The  darkest  storm  that  sadness 

E'er  cast  upon  the  heart, 
Is  but  a  fleeting  shadow, 

Which  love  can  bid  depart: 
No  weight  of  wo  can  'thrall  us, 

If  those  we  love  are  near, 
To  soothe  the  drooping  spirit, 

And  dry  the  falling  tear. 

Our  best  and  brightest  treasure, 

Our  balm  for  every  pain, 
Is  in  the  hearts  that  love  us — 

A  linked  and  golden  chain. 
And  with  that  chain  to  guard  us— 

A  charmed  and  shining  mail — 
O!  what  though  ill  betide  us, 

It  cannot  long  prevail. 


HOME    AND  WOMEN. 


Our  homes — what  is  their  corner-stone  but  the  virtue  of 
women  ?  And  on  what  does  social  well-being  rest,  but  on 
our  homes  ?  Must  we  not  trace  all  other  blessings  of  civilized 
life  to  the  door  of  our  private  dwellings  ?  Are  not  our  hearth- 
stones— guarded  by  the  holy  forms  of  conjugal,  filial,  and 
parental  love,  (the  corner-stones  of  church  and  state) — 
more  sacred  than  either — more  necessary  than  both  ?  Let 
our  temples  crumble,  and  our  academies  decay — let  every 
public  edifice,  our  halls  of  justice,  and  our  capitols  of  state, 
be  leveled  with  the  dust — but  spare  our  homes.  Man  did 
not  invent,  and  he  cannot  improve  or  abrogate  them.  A 
private  shelter  to  cover  in  two  hearts  dearer  to  each  other 
than  all  the  world — high  walls  to  seclude  the  profane  eyes 
of  every  human  being — seclusion  enough  for  children  to  feel 
that  mother  is  a  peculiar  name — this  is  home,  and  here  is 
the  birthplace  of  every  virtuous  impulse,  of  every  sacred 
thought.  Here  the  church  and  the  state  must  come  for  their 
origin  and  support.  Oh,  spare  our  homes !  The  love  we 
experience  there,  gives  us  our  faith  in  an  Infinite  Goodness ; 
the  purity  and  disinterested  tenderness  of  home  is  our  fore- 
taste and  our  earnest  of  a  better  world.  In  the  relations 
there  established  and  fostered,  do  we  find  through  life  the 
chief  solace  and  joy  of  existence.  What  friends  deserve  the 
name  compared  with  those  whom  a  birthright  gave  us? 
One  mother  is  worth  a  thousand  friends — one  sister,  dearer 
and  truer  than  twenty  intimate  companions.  We  who  have 
played  on  the  same  hearth  under  the  light  of  smiles — who 
date  back  to  the  same  season  of  innocence  and  hope — in 
whose  veins  runs  the  same  blood — do  we  not  find  that  years 
only  make  more  sacred  and  important  the  tie  that  binds  us? 
Coldness  may  spring  up — distance  may  separate — different 
spheres  may  divide ;  but  those  who  can  love  anything,  who 
continue  to  love  at  all,  must  find  that  the  friends  who  God 
himself  gave  are  wholly  unlike  any  we  can  choose  for  our- 
selves, and  that  the  yearning  for  these  is  the  strongest  spark 
in  our  expiring  affection. 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


BY  L.  MARIA  CHILD. 

[The  following  story  is  founded  upon  facts  which  occurred  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  leading  incidents  are 
still  in  the  memory  of  many  of  the  inhabitants  of  Chester  county,  Penn- 
sylvania.] 

Elizabeth  Wilson  was  of  humble  though  respectable 
parentage.  From  infancy  she  was  remarked  for  beauty  and 
a  delicate  nervous  organization.  Her  brother  William,  two 
years  older,  was  likewise  a  handsome  child,  with  a  more 
sturdy  and  vigorous  frame.  He  had  a  gentle,  loving  heart, 
which  expended  its  affections  most  lavishly  on  his  mother 
and  little  sister.  In  their  early  years  Lizzy  was  his  constant 
shadow.  If  he  went  to  the  barn  to  hunt  for  eggs,  the  little 
one  was  sure  to  run  prattling  along  with  him,  hand  in  hand. 
If  he  pelted  walnuts  from  the  tree,  she  was  sure  to  be  there 
with  her  little  basket,  to  pick  them  up.  They  sat  on  the 
same  blue  bench  to  eat  their  bread  and  milk ;  and  with  the 
first  jack-knife  he  ever  owned,  the  affectionate  boy  carved 
on  it  the  letters  W.  and  E.  for  William  and  Elizabeth.  The 
sister  lavishly  returned  his  love.  If  a  pie  was  baked  for  her, 
she  would  never  break  it  till  Willie  came  to  share ;  and  she 
would  never  go  to  sleep  unless  her  arms  were  about  his 
neck. 

Their  mother,  a  woman  of  tender  heart  and  yielding  tern 
per,  took  great  delight  in  her  handsome  children.  Often 
when  she  went  out  to  gather  chips  or  brush,  she  stopped  tc 
look  in  upon  them,  as  they  sat  on  the  blue  bench,  feeding 
each  other  from  their  little  porringers  of  bread  and  milk 
The  cross-lights  from  a  side-window  threw  on  them  a  reflec- 
tion of  the  lilac  bushes,  so  that  they  seemed  seated  in  a  flow- 


340 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


ering-grove.  It  was  the  only  picture  the  poor  woman  had  • 
but  none  of  the  old  masters  could  have  equalled  its  beauty. 

The  earliest  and  strongest  development  of  Lizzy's  charac- 
ter was  love.  She  was  always  caressing  her  kitten,  or  twi- 
ning her  arms  about  Willie's  neck,  or  leaning  on  her  mother's 
lap,  begging  for  a  kiss.  A  dozen  times  a  day  she  would  look 
earnestly  into  her  mother's  eyes,  and  inquire,  most  beseech- 
ingly, "  Does  you  love  your  little  Lizzy  ?"  And  if  the  fond 
answer  did  not  come  as  promptly  as  usual,  her  beautiful  eyes, 
always  plaintive  in  their  expression,  would  begin  to  swim 
wTith  tears.  This  "strong  necessity  of  loving,"  which  so  per- 
vades the  nature  of  woman,  the  fair  child  inherited  from  her 
gentle  mother;  and  from  her,  too,  inherited  a  deficiency  of 
firmness,  of  which  such  natures  have  double  need.  To  be 
every  thing,  and  do  every  thing,  for  those  she  loved,  was  the 
paramount  law  of  her  existence. 

Such  a  being  was  of  course  born  for  sorrow.  Even  in 
infancy,  the  discerning  eye  might  already  see  its  prophetic 
shadow  resting  on  her  expressive  countenance.  The  first 
great  affliction  of  her  life  was  the  death  of  her  mother,  when 
she  was  ten  years  old.  Her  delicate  nerves  were  shattered 
by  the  blow,  and  were  never  afterwards  fully  restored  to 
health.  The  dead  body  of  her  beloved  mother,  with  large 
coins  on  the  eye-lids,  was  so  awfully  impressed  on  her  ima- 
gination, that  the  image  followed  her  everywhere,  even  into 
her  dreams.  As  she  slept,  tears  often  dropped  from  her 
tremulous  eye-lashes,  and  nightmare  visions  made  her  start 
and  scream.  There  was  no  gentle  voice  near  to  soothe  her 
perturbed  spirit ;  none  to  throw  an  angel's  shining  robe  over 
the  hideous  spectre  that  lay  so  cold  and  stiff  in  the  halls  of 
memory.  Her  father  fed  and  clothed  his  children,  and  caused 
them  to  be  taught  to  read  and  write.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  any  thing  more  was  included  in  parental  duty.  Of 
clothing  for  the  mind,  or  food  for  the  heart,  he  knew  nothing, 
for  his  own  had  never  been  clothed  and  fed.  He  came  weary 
from  daily  toil,  ate  his  supper,  dozed  in  his  chair  awhile,  and 
then  sent  the  children  to  bed.  A  few  times  after  the  death 
of  his  wife,  he  kissed  his  daughter ;  but  she  never  ventured 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


341 


to  look  into  his  eyes,  and  ask,  "  Does  you  love  your  little 
Lizzy?"  Willie  was  her  only  consolation  ;  and  all  he  could 
do  was  to  weep  passionately  with  her,  at  everything  which 
reminded  them  of  their  mother. 

Nature,  as  usual,  reflected  back  the  image  of  the  soul  that 
gazed  upon  her.  To  Lizzy's  excited  mind,  everything  ap- 
peared mysterious  and  awful,  and  all  sounds  seemed  to  wail 
and  sigh.  The  rustling  of  the  trees  in  the  evening  wind 
went  through  her,  like  the  voice  of  a  spirit ;  and  when  the 
nights  were  bright,  she  would  hide  her  head  in  her  brother's 
bosom,  and  whisper,  "  Willie,  dear,  I  wish  the  moon  would 
not  keep  looking  at  me.  She  seems  to  say  something  to  me, 
and  it  makes  me  afraid." 

All  susceptible  souls  have  felt  thus,  particularly  when  un- 
der the  influence  of  grief : 

"  The  snow  of  deepest  silence 
O'er  everything  doth  fall ; 
So  beautiful  and  quiet, 

And  yet  so  like  a  pall —  ' 
As  if  all  life  were  ended, 
And  rest  were  come  to  all." 

Such  a  state  of  feeling,  long  indulged,  could  not  be  otherwise 
than  injurious  to  a  bodily  frame  originally  delicate.  The 
sensitive  child  soon  became  subject  to  fits,  the  severity  of 
which  at  times  threatened  her  life.  On  coming  out  of  these 
spasms,  with  piteous  tones  and  bewildered  looks  she  would 
ask,  "  Where  is  my  mother  V 

At  the  end  of  a  year  an  important  change  came  over  the 
lonely  household.  A  strong,  active  step-mother  was  intro- 
duced. Her  loud  voice  and  energetic  tread,  so  different  from 
her  own  quiet  and  timid  mother's,  frightened  poor  Lizzy. 
Her  heart  more  than  ever  turned  back  upon  itself,  and  listen- 
ed to  the  echoes  of  its  own  yearnings.  Willie,  being  old 
enough  to  work  on  the  farm,  was  now  absent  most  of  the 
day  ;  and  the  fair  girl,  so  richly  endowed  by  nature  with  a!1 
deep  feelings  and  beautiful  capacities,  so  lavish  of  her  affec 
tions,  so  accustomed  to  free  outpourings  of  love,  became 
reserved,  and  apparently  cold  and  stupid.    When  the  step- 


312 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


mother  gave  birth  to  an  infant,  the  fountains  of  feeling  were 
again  unsealed.  It  was  her  delight  to  watch  the  babe,  and 
minister  to  its  wants.  But  this  development  of  the  affections 
was  likewise  destined  to  be  nipped  in  the  bud.  The  step- 
mother, though  by  no  means  hard-hearted,  was  economical 
and  worldly-wise.  She  deemed  it  most  profitable  to  employ 
a  healthy,  stout  niece  of  her  own,  somewhat  older  than  Eliza- 
beth, and  to  have  her  step-daughter  bound  out  in  some  family 
where  she  could  do  light  labor.  It  was  also  determined  that 
William  should  go  to  service ;  and  his  place  of  destination 
was  fifty  miles  from  that  of  his  sister. 

The  news  of  this  arrangement  was  very  bitter  to  the  chil- 
dren. Both  answered  their  father,  very  meekly,  that  they 
were  willing  to  go ;  but  their  voices  were  deep,  sad,  and 
almost  inaudible.  Without  saying  another  word,  the  boy 
put  on  his  hat,  and  the  girl  her  sun-bonnet,  and  taking  each 
other  by  the  hand,  they  went  forth,  and  roamed  silently  to 
their  mother's  grave.  There  they  stood  for  a  long  time, 
still — still — and  their  tears  dropped  fast  on  the  green  sod. 
At  last,  Elizabeth  sobbed  out,  "  Ob,  if  dear  mother  was  alive, 
Willie,  we  should  not  have  to  go  away  from  home."  But 
Willie  could  only  answer  by  a  fresh  outburst  of  grief.  A 
little  clump  of  wild  flowers  nodded  over  the  edge  of  the 
mound.  The  affectionate  boy  cut  two  of  them,  and  said, 
"  Let  us  keep  these,  Lizzy,  to  remember  mother  by." 

The  flowers  were  carefully  pressed  between  the  leaves  of 
Lizzy's  Testament,  and  when  the  sorrowful  day  of  parting 
came,  one  was  nicely  folded  in  a  paper  for  Willie.  "Now, 
dear  sis,  give  me  that  nice  little  curl,"  said  he,  putting  his 
finger  on  a  soft,  golden-brown  ringlet,  that  nestled  close  to 
her  ear,  and  lay  caressingly  on  her  downy  cheek.  She  glanced 
in  the  fragment  of  a  glass  that  served  them  for  a  mirror,  and 
with  eyes  brimful  of  tears,  she  answered,  "  Oh,  Willie,  I  can- 
not give  you  that.  Don't  you  remember  how  dear  mother 
used  to  wet  my  head  all  over  with  cold  water,  to  make  my 
hair  curl?  She  used  to  laugh  when  I  shook  my  head,  and 
made  the  curls  go  all  over  my  forehead ;  and  she  would 
kiss  that  little  curl  in  particular.    She  said  it  was  such  a 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


343 


darling  little  curl."  Thus  childishly  did  the  innocent  ones 
speak  together.  The  brother  twisted  the  favorite  curl  round 
his  finger,  and  kissed  it  too ;  and  a  bright  tear  fell  on  it,  and 
glittered  in  the  sunshine. 

William  left  home  a  few  days  earlier  than  his  sister,  and 
bitterly  did  the  lonely  one  sob  herself  to  sleep  that  night. 
She  shuddered  in  the  dark,  and  when  the  moon  looked  in 
at  the  window,  its  glance  seemed  more  mournful  than  ever. 
The  next  morning,  she  fell  from  the  breakfast-table  in  a  fit 
more  severe  than  usual.  But  as  she  soon  recovered,  and 
as  these  spasms  now  occurred  only  at  distant  intervals,  her 
step-mother  thought  she  had  better  be  in  readiness  to  depart 
at  the  appointed  time. 

The  wagon  was  brought  to  the  door,  and  the  father  said 
to  her,  "  Lizzy,  put  on  your  bonnet,  and  bring  your  bundle. 
It  is  time  to  go."  Oh,  how  the  poor  child  lingered  in  her 
little  bed-room,  where  she  and  Willie  slept  in  their  infant 
days,  and  where  the  mother  used  to  hear  them  say  their 
prayers,  and  kiss  them  both,  as  they  lay  folded  in  each 
others  arms.  To  the  strong  step-mother  she  easily  said 
good  bye ;  but  she  paused  long  over  the  cradle  of  .the  babe, 
and  kissed  each  of  his  little  fingers,  and  fondly  turned  a  little 
wave  of  sunny  hair  on  his  pure  white  forehead.  Her  heart 
swelled,  and  she  had  to  swallow  hard  to  keep  down  the  sobs  ; 
for  it  was  her  cradle,  and  she  was  thinking  how  her  mother 
used  to  sing  her  to  sleep.  Her  father  spoke  to  her  in  a  tone 
of  unusual  tenderness,  as  if  he  too  remembered  her  infancy, 
and  the  gentle  one  who  used  to  rock  her  in  that  cradle. 
"  Come,  Lizzy,"  said  he,  "  it  is  time  to  go.  You  shall  come 
back  and  see  the  baby  before  long."  With  blinded  eyes  she 
stumbled  into  the  wagon,  and  turned  and  looked  back  as 
long  as  she  could  see  the  old  elm-tree  by  her  bed-room  win- 
dow, where  all  the  summers  of  her  young  life  she  had  watch- 
ed the  swallows  come  and  go. 

It  is  a  dreary  fate  for  a  loving  and  sensitive  child  to  be 
bound  out  at  service  among  strangers,  even  if  they  are  kind- 
hearted.  The  good  woman  of  the  house  received  Lizzy  in 
a  very  friendly  manner,  and  told  her  to  make  herself  at  home. 


344 


i 

ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


But  the  word  only  sent  a  mournful  echo  through  her  heart. 
For  a  few  days,  she  went  about  in  a  state  of  abstraction  that 
seemed  like  absolute  stupidity.  Her  step-mother  had  pre- 
pared them  for  this,  by  telling  them  there  was  something 
strange  about  Lizzy,  and  that  many  people  thought  her  fits 
had  affected  her  mind.  Being  of  coarser  and  stronger  na- 
tures, they  could  none  of  them  imagine  that  the  slow  stag- 
nation of  the  heart  might  easily  dim  the  light  of  intellect 
in  a  creature  so  keenly  susceptible.  But  by  degrees,  the 
duties  required  of  her  roused  her  faculties  into  greater  activi- 
ty ;  and  when  night  came,  she  was  fortunately  too  weary 
to  lie  awake  and  weep.  Sometimes  she  dreamed  of  Willie, 
and  her  dreams  of  him  were  always  bright  and  pleasant ; 
but  her  mother  sometimes  fondled  her  with  looks  of  love, 
and  sometimes  came  as  the  pale  cold  spectre.  Thus  the 
months  passed  slowly  away.  Her  father  came  to  see  her  at 
distant  intervals,  and  once  in  a  great  while  a  letter  came 
from  Willie,  in  a  large  stiff  hand.  Unaccustomed  to  writing, 
he  could  not  through  that  medium  tell  much  that  was  pass- 
ing in  his  heart.  That  he  wanted  badly  to  see  his  sister, 
and  often  kissed  the  flower  they  plucked  from  the  dear  mo- 
ther's grave,  was  the  substance  of  all  his  epistles. 

In  the  mean  time,  Lizzy  was  passing  into  womanhood. 
Childhood  and  youth  kissed  each  other,  with  new  and  glow- 
ing beauty.  Her  delicate  cheeks  mantled  with  a  richer  color, 
and  her  deep  blue  eyes,  shaded  with  long  fringes  of  the 
darkest  brown,  looked  out  upon  life  with  a  more  earnest  and 
expressive  longing.  Plain  and  scanty  garments  could  not 
conceal  the  graceful  outline  of  her  flexile  figure,  and  her  mo- 
tions were  like  those  of  some  pretty  timid  animal,  that  has 
always  stepped  to  sylvan  sounds.  She  was  not  aware  of  her 
uncommon  loveliness,  though  she  found  it  pleasant  to  look 
in  the  glass,  and  had  sometimes  heard  strangers  say  to  each 
other,  "  See  that  pretty  girl !" 

There  were  no  young  men  in  the  immediate  neighborhood, 
and  she  had  not  been  invited  to  any  of  the  rustic  dances  or 
quilting  frolics.  One  bashful  lad  in  the  vicinity  always  con- 
trived to  drive  his  cows  past  the  house  where  she  lived,  and 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


345 


eagerly  kept  watch  for  a  glimpse  of  her,  as  she  went  to  the 
barn  with  her  milking-pails.  But  if  she  happened  to  pass 
near  enough  to  nod  and  smile,  his  cheeks  grew  red,  and  his 
voice  forsook ;  and  she  could  not  know  or  guess  that  he 
would  lie  awake  long  that  night,  and  dream  of  her  smile, 
and  resolve  that  some  time  or  other  he  would  have  courage 
to  tell  her  how  handsome  she  was,  and  how  the  sight  of  her 
made  his  heart  throb.  She  did  not  yet  know  that  she  could 
love  anybody  better  than  she  had  loved  Willie.  She  had 
seen  her  darling  brother  but  twice  during  their  three  years 
of  separation ;  but  his  image  was  ever  fresh  and  bright  in 
her  memory.  When  he  came  to  see  her  she  felt  completely 
happy.  While  he  gazed  upon  her  with  delighted  eyes,  her 
affectionate  nature  was  satisfied  with  love ;  for  it  had  not 
yet  been  revealed  to  her  in  the  melting  glance  of  passion. 
Yet  the  insidious  and  unquiet  power  already  began  to  fore- 
shadow itself  in  vague  restlessness  and  romantic  musings ; 
for  she  was  at  an  age — 

"  To  feel  a  want,  yet  scarce  know  what  it  is ; 
To  seek  one  nature  that  is  always  new, 
Whose  glance  is  warmer  than  another's  kiss : 
Such  longing  instinct  fills  the  mighty  scope 
Of  the  young  heart  with  one  mysterious  hope." 

At  last,  an  important  event  occurred  in  Lizzy's  monotonous 
existence.  A  young  girl  in  the  village  was  to  be  married, 
and  she  was  invited  to  the  quilting  party.  It  was  the  first 
invitation  of  the  kind  she  had  ever  received,  and  of  course 
it  occupied  her  thoughts  day  and  night.  Could  she  have 
foreseen  how  this  simple  occurrence  would  affect  her  whole 
future  destiny,  she  would  have  pondered  over  it  still  more 
deeply.  The  bridegroom  brought  a  friend  with  him  to  the 
party — a  handsome  dark-eyed  young  man,  clerk  of  a  store 
in  a  neighboring  town.  Aware  of  his  personal  attractions, 
he  dressed  himself  with  peculiar  care.  Elizabeth  had  never 
seen  anything  so  elegant ;  and  the  moment  his  eye  glanced 
upon  her,  he  decided  that  he  had  never  seen  anything  half 
so  beautiful.  He  devoted  himself  to  her  in  a  manner  suffix 
ciently  marked  to  excite  envy ;  and  some  of  the  rich  farmers' 


346 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


daughters  made  critical  remarks  about  her  dress,  which  they 
concluded  was  passably  genteel,  for  a  girl  that  lived  out  at 
service.  However,  Lizzy  was  queen  of  the  evening,  by  vir- 
tue of  nature's  own  impress  of  royalty.  When  the  quilt  was 
finished,  romping  games  were  introduced,  according  to  the 
fashion  of  the  times  ;  and  the  young  men  took  care  that  the 
forfeits  paid  by  the  pretty  girls  should  generally  involve  kiss- 
ing some  of  their  own  number.  Among  the  forfeits  required 
of  the  dark-eyed  stranger,  he  was  ordered  to  beg  on  his  knees 
for  the  identical  little  curl  that  Willie  had  asked  of  his  sister. 
In  the  midst  of  her  mirthfulness,  this  brought  a  shadow  over 
her  countenance,  and  she  could  not  answer  playfully.  How- 
ever, this  emotion  passed  away  with  the  moment,  and  she 
became  the  gayest  of  the  gay.  Never  before  had  she  been 
half  so  handsome,  for  never  before  had  she  been  half  so 
happy.  The  joyful  consciousness  of  pleasing  everybody,  and 
the  attractive  young  stranger  in  particular,  made  her  eyes 
sparkle,  and  her  whole  countenance  absolutely  radiant  with 
beauty. 

When  the  party  were  about  to  separate,  the  young  man 
was  very  assiduous  about  placing  her  shawl,  and  begged 
permission  to  accompany  her  home.  But  little  was  said  du- 
ring this  walk ;  yet  enough  to  afford  entrance  into  both  hearts 
for  that  insidious  and  unquiet  passion,  which  tangles  the 
web  of  human  life  more  than  all  the  other  sentiments  and 
instincts  of  our  mysterious  being.  At  parting  he  took  her 
hand,  to  say  good  night;  but  he  continued  to  hold  it,  and, 
leaning  against  the  gate,  they  both  stood,  for  a  few  moments, 
gazing  at  the  clear,  silvery  orb  of  night.  Ah,  how  different 
the  moon  seemed  to  Lizzy  now  !  Earth's  spectral  robe  had 
changed  to  a  veil  of  glory.  Her  bonnet  had  fallen  back, 
and  the  evening  breeze  played  gently  with  her  ringlets.  In 
soft,  insinuating  tones,  the  young  man  said,  "Will  you  not 
give  me  that  little  curl  I  asked  you  for  ?"  She  blushed 
deeply,  and  answered,  in  her  child-like  way,  "  I  cannot  give 
you  that,  because  my  mother  used  to  kiss  it  so  often."  "  No 
wonder  she  kissed  it,"  he  replied  ;  "  it  looks  so  roguish,  lying 
there  on  the  pretty  cheek  "    And  before  she  was  aware  of  it, 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


347 


he  had  kissed  it  too  !  Trembling  and  confused,  she  turned 
to  open  the  gate,  but  he  held  it  fast,  until  she  had  promised 
that  the  next  time  he  came  she  would  give  him  one  of  her 
curls. 

Poor  Lizzy  went  to  bed  at  night  with  an  intoxicated 
heart.  When  she  twisted  her  hair  at  the  glass,  next  morn- 
ing, she  smiled  and  blushed,  as  she  twined  the  favorite  ring- 
let more  carefully  than  ever.  She  was  so  childishly  happy 
writh  her  pretty  little  curl !  The  next  Sunday  evening,  as 
she  sat  at  the  window,  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  flute.  He 
had  promised  to  bring  his  flute ;  and  he  had  not  forgotten 
her.  She  listened — it  came  nearer  and  nearer  through  the 
wood.  Her  heart  beat  audibly,  for  i  was  indeed  the  hand- 
some dark-eyed  stranger. 

All  summer  long,  he  came  every  Sunday  afternoon ;  and 
with  him  came  moonlight  walks  and  flute — warblings,  and 
tender  whisperings,  and  glances,  such  as  steal  away  a  wo- 
man's heart.  This  was  the  fairy-land  of  her  young  life.  She 
had  somebody  now  into  whose  eyes  she  could  gaze,  with 
all  the  deep  tenderness  of  her  soul,  and  ask,  "  Do  you  love 
your  own  Lizzy  ?" 

The  young  man  did  love,  but  not  as  she  loved  him ;  for 
tier's  was  a  richer  nature,  and  gave  more  than  he  could 
return.  He  accompanied  her  to  her  father's,  and  they  were 
generally  understood  to  be  betrothed.  He  had  not  seen  her 
brother  William,  but  he  was  told  a  thousand  affectionate 
anecdotes  of  his  kind  and  good  heart.  When  they  returned 
from  the  visit  to  the  homestead,  they  brought  with  them  the 
little  blue  bench  marked  W.  and  E.  Lizzy  was  proud  of 
her  genteel  lover ;  and  the  only  drop  which  it  now  seemed 
possible  to  add  to  her  cup  of  happiness,  was  to  introduce  him 
to  William.  But  her  brother  was  far  off ;  and  when  the  au- 
tumn came,  her  betrothed  announced  the  necessity  of  going 
to  a  distant  city,  to  establish  himself  in  business.  It  was  a 
bitter,  bitter  parting  to  both.  The  warmest  letters  were  but 
a  cold  substitute  for  those  happy  hours  of  mutual  confidence  ; 
and  after  awhile,  his  letters  became  more  brief  and  cool. 
The  fact  was,  the  young  man  was  too  vain  to  feel  deeply ; 


348 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


and  among  his  new  acquaintance  in  the  city,  was  a  young 
good-looking  widow,  with  a  small  fortune,  who  early  evinced 
a  preference  for  him.  To  be  obviously  and  at  the  same  time 
modestly  preferred,  by  a  woman  of  any  agreeable  qualities, 
is  what  few  men,  even  of  the  strongest  character,  can  with- 
stand. It  is  the  knowledge  of  this  fact,  and  experience  with 
regard  to  the  most  delicate  and  acceptable  modes  of  express- 
ing preference,  which,  as  Samuel  Weller  expresses  it,  makes 
"  a  widow  equal  to  twenty-five  other  women."  Lizzy's  lover 
was  not  a  strong  character,  and  he  was  vain  and  selfish.  It 
is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  his  letters  to  the  pretty  girl  who 
lived  out  at  service,  should  become  more  cool  and  infrequent. 
She  was  very  slow  to  believe  it  thus ;  and  when,  at  last, 
news  reached  her  that  he  was  positively  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried to  another,  she  refused  to  listen  to  it.  But  he  came  not 
to  vindicate  himself,  and  he  ceased  to  answer  her  letters. 
The  poor  deluded  girl  awoke  to  a  full  consciousness  of  her 
misery,  and  suffered  such  intensity  of  wretchedness  as  only 
keenly  sensive  natures  can  suffer.  William  had  promised  to 
come  and  see  her  the  latter  part  of  the  winter,  and  her  heart 
had  been  filled  with  pleasant  and  triumphant  anticipations 
of  introducing  to  him  her  handsome  lover.  But  now  the 
pride  of  her  heart  was  humbled,  and  its  joy  turned  into 
mourning.  She  was  cast  off,  forsaken  ;  and,  alas,  that  was 
not  the  worst.  As  she  sobbed  on  the  neck  of  her  faithful 
brother,  she  felt,  for  the  first  time,  that  there  was  something 
she  could  not  tell  him.  The  keenest  of  her  wretched  feel- 
ings she  dared  not  avow.  He  pitied  and  consoled  her  as  well 
as  he  could  ;  but  to  her,  it  seemed  as  if  there  was  no  conso- 
lation but  in  death.  Most  earnestly  did  he  wish  that  he  had 
a  home  to  shelter  her,  where  he  could  fold  her  round  with 
the  soft  wings  of  brotherly  love.  But  they  were  both  poor, 
and  poverty  fetters  the  impulses  of  the  heart.  And  so  they 
must  part  again,  he  guessing  but  half  of  her  great  sorrow. 
If  the  farewell  was  sad  to  him,  what  must  it  have  been  to 
her,  who  now  felt  so  utterly  alone  in  the  wide  world  7  Her 
health  sunk  under  the  conflict,  and  the  fits  returned  upon 
her  with  increased  violence.    In  her  state  of  gloomy  abstrac- 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


349 


%  tion  and  indifference,  she  hardly  noticed  the  significant 
glances  and  busy  whispers  of  neighbors  and  acquaintance. 
With  her,  the  agony  of  death  was  past.  The  world  seemed 
to  her  too  spectral  for  her  to  dread  its  censures.  At  last,  she 
gave  birth  to  a  dead  infant,  and  for  a  long  time  her  own  life 
trembled  in  the  balance.  She  recovered,  in  a  state  of  con- 
firmed melancholy,  and  with  occasional  indications  of  im- 
paired intellect. 

"  A  shadow  seemed  to  rise 
From  out  her  thoughts,  and  turn  to  dreariness 
All  blissful  hopes  and  sunny  memories." 

She  was  no  longer  invited  to  visit  with  the  young  people 
of  the  neighborhood  ;  and  the  envy  excited  by  her  uncom- 
mon beauty,  showed  itself  in  triumph  over  her  blighted  repu- 
tation. Her  father  thought  it  a  duty  to  reprove  her  for  sin, 
and  her  step-mother  said  some  cutting  words  about  the  dis- 
grace her  conduct  had  brought  upon  the  family.  But  no 
kind  Christian  heart  reminded  her  that  weakness  is  not 
always  crime,  or  strengthened  her  with  the  assurance  that 
one  false  step  in  life  might  be  retrieved.  Thus  was  the  lily 
broken  in  its  budding  beauty,  and  its  delicate  petals  blighted 
by  harsh  winds. 

Poor  Lizzy  felt  this  depressing  atmosphere  of  neglect  and 
scorn  ;  but  fortunately  with  less  keenness  than  she  would 
have  done,  before  the  brain  was  stultified  and  heart  congealed 
by  shame  and  sorrow.  She  no  longer  showed  much  feeling 
about  anything,  except  the  little  blue  bench  marked  W. 
and  E.  Every  moment  that  she  could  steal  from  household 
duties,  she  would  retire  to  her  little  room,  and,  seated  on 
this  bench,  would  read  over  William's  letters,  and  those 
other  letters  which  had  crushed  her  loving  heart.  She  would 
not  allow  any  person  to  remove  the  bench  from  her  bedside, 
or  to  place  a  foot  upon  it.  To  such  inanimate  objects  does 
the  poor  human  heart  cling  in  its  desolation. 

Years  passed  away  monotonously  with  Elizabeth  ;  years 
of  loneliness  and  labor.  Some  young  men,  attracted  by  her 
beauty,  and  emboldened  by  knowledge  of  her  weakness, 
approached  her  with  a  familiarity  which  they  intended  for 


350 


ELIZABETH  WILSON". 


flattery.  But  their  profligacy  was  too  thinly  disguised  to 
be  dangerous  to  a  nature  like  hers.  She  turned  coldly  from 
them  all,  with  feelings  of  disgust  and  weariness. 

When  she  was  about  twenty-three  years  old.  she  went  to 
Philadelphia,  to  do  household  work  for  a  family  that  wished 
to  hire  her.  Important  events  followed  this  change,  but  a 
veil  of  obscurity  rests  over  the  causes  that  produced  them. 
After  some  months'  residence  in  the  city,  her  health  failed 
more  and  more,  and  she  returned  to  the  country.  She  was 
still  competent  to  discharge  the  lighter  duties  of  household 
labor,  but  she  seemed  to  perform  them  all  mechanically,  and 
with  a  dull  stupor.  After  a  time,  it  became  obvious  that 
she  would  again  be  a  mother.  When  questioned,  her  an- 
swers were  incoherent  and  contradictory.  At  last  she  gave 
birth  to  twins.  She  wept  when  she  saw  them ;  but  they 
seemed  to  have  no  power  to  withdraw  her  mind  from  its 
disconsolate  wanderings.  When  they  were  a  few  months 
old,  she  expressed  a  wish  to  see  Philadelphia ;  and  a  lad 
belonging  to  the  family  where  she  had  remained  during  her 
illness,  agreed  to  convey  her  part  of  the  way  in  a  wagon. 
When  they  came  into  the  public  road,  she  told  him  she  could 
walk  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  begged  him  to  return.  He 
left  her  seated  on  a  rock  near  a  thick  grove,  nursing  her 
babes.  She  was  calm  and  gentle,  but  sad  and  abstracted 
as  usual.  That  was  in  the  morning.  Where  or  how  she 
spent  the  day  was  never  known.  Toward  night  she  arrived 
in  Philadelphia,  at  the  house  where  she  had  formerly  lived. 
She  seemed  very  haggard  and  miserable  :  what  few  words 
she  said  were  abrupt  and  unmeaning  ;  and  her  attitudes  and 
motions  had  the  sluggish  apathy  of  an  insane  person. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  rumor  afloat  that  two  strangled 
infants  had  been  found  in  a  grove  on  the  road  from  Chester. 
Of  course  this  circumstance  soon  became  connected  with  her 
name.  When  she  was  arrested,  she  gave  herself  up  with 
the  same  gloomy  indifference  that  marked  all  her  actions. 
She  denied  having  committed  the  murder ;  but  when  asked 
who  she  supposed  had  done  it,  she  sometimes  shuddered  and 
said  nothing,  sometimes  said  she  did  not  know,  and  some 


ELIZABETH  WILSON.  351 

times  answered  that  the  children  were  still  living.  When 
conveyed  to  prison,  she  asked  for  pen  and  ink ;  and  in  a  short 
letter,  rudely  penned,  she  begged  William  to  come  to  her, 
and  to  bring  from  her  bed-room  the  little  blue  bench  they 
used  to  sit  upon  in  the  happy  days  of  childhood.  He  came 
at  once,  and  long  did  the  affectionate  couple  stand  locked  in 
each  others  arms,  sobbing,  and  without  the  power  to  speak. 
It  was  not  until  the  second  interview  that  her  brother  could 
summon  courage  to  ask  whether  she  really  committed  the 
crime  of  which  she  was  accused. 

"Oh  no,  William,"  she  replied,  "you  could  not  suppose 
I  did." 

"You  must  indeed  have  been  dreadfully  changed,  dear 
Lizzy,"  said  he ;  "  for  you  used  to  have  a  heart  that  could 
not  hurt  a  kitten." 

"  I  am  dreadfully  changed,"  she  answered,  "  but  I  never 
wanted  to  harm  anything." 

He  took  her  hand,  played  sadly  with  the  emaciated  fin- 
gers, and  after  a  strong  effort  to  control  his  emotions,  he  said, 
in  a  subdued  voice,  "  Lizzy,  dear,  can  you  tell  me  who  did 
do  it?" 

She  stared  at  him  with  a  wild,  intense  gaze,  that  made 
him  shudder.  Then  looking  fearfully  toward  the  door,  she 
said,  in  a  strange  muffled  whisper,  "Did  whatT  Poor  Wil- 
liam bowed  his  head  over  the  hand  that  he  held  in  his  own, 
and  wept  like  a  child. 

During  various  successive  interviews,  he  could  obtain  no 
satisfactory  answer  to  the  important  question.  Sometimes 
she  merely  gazed  at  him  with  a  vacant,  insane  expression  ; 
sometimes  she  faintly  answered  that  she  did  not  know ;  and 
sometimes  she  said  she  believed  the  babes  were  still  alive. 
She  gradually  became  more  quiet  and  rational  under  her 
brother's  soothing  influence  ;  and  one-  day,  when  he  had 
repeatedly  assured  her  that  she  could  safely  trust  her  secrets 
to  his  faithful  heart,  she  said,  with  a  suppressed  whisper,  as 
if  she  feared  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  "  He  did  it." 

"  Who  is  he  ?"  asked  the  brother,  gently. 

*  The  father,"  she  replied. 


352  ELIZABETH  WILSON. 

u  Did  you  know  he  meant  to  do  it  ?" 

"  No.  He  told  me  he  would  meet  me  and  give  me  some 
money.  But  when  I  asked  him  for  something  to  support  the 
children,  he  was  angry,  and  choked  them.  I  was  frightened, 
and  fell  faint.  I  don't  know  what  I  did.  I  awoke  up, 
and  found  myself  on  the  ground  alone,  and  the  babies  lying 
among  the  bushes." 

"  What  is  his  name,  and  where  does  he  live?"  inquired  the 
brother.    She  gave  him  a  wild  look  of  distress,  and  said — 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me.  I  ought  not  to  have  done  so.  I  am 
a  poor  sinner — a  poor  sinner.  But  everybody  deserted  me  ; 
the  world  was  very  cold ;  I  had  nobody  to  love ;  and  he  was 
very  kind  to  me." 

"  But  tell  me  his  name,"  urged  the  brother.  She  burst 
into  a  strange,  mad  laugh,  picked  nervously  at  the  handker- 
chief she  held  in  her  hand,  and  repeated,  idiotically,  "Name? 
name  ?  1  guess  the  babies  are  alive  now.  I  don't  know — 
I  don't  know — but  I  guess  they  are." 

To  the  lawyer  she  would  say  nothing  except  to  deny  that 
she  committed  the  murder.  All  their  exertions  could  wring 
from  her  nothing  more  distinct  than  the  story  she  had  briefly 
told  her  brother.  During  her  trial,  the  expression  of  her 
countenance  was  stupid  and  vacant.  At  times  she  would 
drum  on  the  railing  before  her,  and  stare  round  on  the  crowd 
with  a  bewildered  look,  as  if  unconscious  where  she  was. 
The  deranged  state  of  her  mind  was  strongly  urged  by  her 
lawyer ;  but  his  opponent  replied  that  all  this  might  be  as- 
sumed. To  the  story  she  had  told  in  prison,  it  was  answer- 
ed, that  her  not  telling  of  the  murder  at  the  time,  made  her 
an  accomplice.  After  the  usual  display  of  legal  ingenuity 
on  both  sides,  the  jury  brought  her  in  guilty  of  murder, 
and  the  poor  forlorn  creature  was  sentenced  to  be  hung  at 
Chester. 

The  wretched  brother  was  so  stunned  by  the  blow,  that 
at  first  he  could  not  collect  his  thoughts.  But  it  soon  oc- 
curred to  him,  that  the  terrible  doom  might  still  be  arrested, 
if  the  case  could  be  brought  suitably  before  the  governor. 
A  petition  was  accordingly  drawn  up,  setting  forth  the  alien- 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


353 


ation  of  mind  to  which  she  had  been  subjected,  in  conse- 
quence of  fits,  and  the  extreme  doubtfulness  whether  she 
committed  the  murder.  Her  youth,  her  beauty,  the  severe 
sorrows  of  her  life,  and  the  obviously  impaired  state  of  her 
reason,  touched  many  hearts,  and  the  petition  was  rapidly 
signed.  When  William  went  to  her  cell  to  bid  her  adieu, 
he  tried  to  cheer  her  with  the  hope  of  pardon.  She  listened 
with  listless  apathy.  But  when  he  pressed  her  hand,  and 
with  a  mournful  smile  said,  "  Good  bye,  dear  Lizzy  ;  I  shall 
come  back  soon,  and  I  hope  with  good  news,"  she  pointed 
tearfully  to  the  little  blue  bench,  and  said,  "  Let  what  will 
happen,  Willie,  take  care  of  that,  for  my  sake."  He  an- 
swered with  a  choked  voice ;  and  as  he  turned  away,  the 
tears  flowed  fast  down  his  manly  cheeks.  She  listened  to 
the  echoes  of  his  steps,  and  when  she  could  hear  them  no 
longer,  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor,  laid  her  head  down 
on  the  little  blue  bench,  kissed  the  letters  curved  upon  it, 
and  sobbed  as  she  had  not  sobbed  since  she  was  first  deserted 
by  her  false  lover.  When  the  jailor  went  in  to  carry  her 
supper,  he  found  her  asleep  thus :  rich  masses  of  her  glossy 
brown  hair  fell  over  her  pale  but  still  lovely  face,  on  which 
rested  a  serene  smile,  as  if  she  were  happy  in  her  dreams. 
He  stood  and  gazed  upon  her,  and  his  hard  hand  brushed 
away  a  tear.  Some  motion  that  he  made  disturbed  her 
slumber.  She  opened  her  eyes,  from  which  there  beamed 
for  a  moment  a  rational  and  happy  expression,  as  she  said, 
"I  was  out  in  the  woods  behind  the  house,  holding  my  little 
apron  to  catch  the  nuts  that  Willie  threw  down.  Mother 
smiled  at  me  from  a  blue  place  between  two  clouds,  and 
said,  '  Come  to  me,  my  child.' " 

The  next  day  a  clergyman  came  to  see  her.  He  spoke 
of  the  penalty  for  sin,  and  the  duty  of  being  resigned  to  the 
demands  of  justice.  She  heard  his  words  as  a  mother  hears 
street  sounds  when  she  is  watching  a  dying  babe.  They 
conveyed  to  her  no  import.  When  asked  if  she  repented  of 
her  sins,  she  said  she  had  been  a  weak,  erring  creature,  and 
she  hoped  that  she  was  penitent ;  but  that  she  never  com- 
mitted the  murder. 


354 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


"  Are  you  resigned  to  die,  if  a  pardon  should  not  be  ob- 
tained ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  want  to  die." 

He  prayed  with  her  in  the  spirit  of  real  human  love ;  and 
this  soothed  her  heart.  She  spoke  seldom  after  her  brother's 
departure ;  and  often  she  did  not  appear  to  hear  when  she 
was  spoken  to.  She  sat  on  the  little  blue  bench,  gazing 
vacantly  on  the  floor,  like  one  already  out  of  the  body. 

In  those  days  there  was  a  briefer  interval  between  sentence 
and  execution  than  at  present.  The  fatal  day  and  hour 
soon  arrived,  and  still  no  tidings  from  the  governor.  Men 
came  to  lead  her  to  the  gallows.  She  seemed  to  understand 
what  they  said  to  her,  and  turned  meekly  to  obey  their 
orders.  But  she  stopped  suddenly,  gazed  on  the  little  blue 
bench,  and  said,  in  a  gasping  tone,  "Has  William  come?" 
When  they  told  her  no,  a  shudder  seemed  to  go  over  her, 
and  her  pale  face  became  still  paler.  A  bit  of  looking-glass 
hung  on  the  wall  in  front  of  her ;  and  as  she  raised  her 
head,  she  saw  the  little  curl  that  had  received  her  mother's 
caresses  and  the  first  kiss  of  love.  With  a  look  of  the  most 
intense  agony,  she  gave  a  loud  groan,  and  burying  her  face 
in  her  hands,  fell  forward  on  the  shoulder  of  the  sheriff. 
##**##* 

Poor  William  had  worked  with  the  desperate  energy  of 
despair;  and  the  governor,  after  a  brief  delay,  granted  a 
pardon.  But  in  those  days  the  facilities  for  traveling  were 
few  ;  and  it  happened  that  the  country  was  inundated  with 
heavy  rains,  which  everywhere  impeded  his  progress.  He 
stopped  neither  for  food  nor  rest ;  but  everywhere  the  floods 
and  broken  roads  hindered  his  progress.  When  he  came  to 
Darby  Creek — which  was  usually  fordable — it  was  swollen 
too  high  to  be  crossed,  and  it  was  some  time  before  a  boat 
could  be  obtained.  In  an  agony  of  mind  he  pressed  onward, 
till  his  horse  fell  dead  under  him.  Half  frantic,  he  begged 
for  another  at  any  price — mounted,  and  rode  furiously.  From 
the  top  of  a  hill  he  saw  a  crowd  assembled  round  the  place 
of  execution.  He  waved  his  handkerchief — he  shouted — 
he  screamed  ;  but,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  he  was 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 


355 


not  heard  or  noticed.  All  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  gallows  ; 
and  soon  the  awful  object  came  within  his  own  vision.  Fa- 
ther of  mercies  !  there  are  women's  garments  floating  in  the 
air  !    There  is  a  struggling,  a  quivering — and  all  is  still. 

With  a  shriek  that  pierced  the  ears  of  the  multitude,  the 
desperate  rider  plunged  forward.  His  horse  fell  under  him, 
and,  shouting  "  A  pardon  ! — a  pardon  !"  he  rolled  senseless 
on  the  ground.  He  came  too  late.  The  unhappy  Elizabeth 
was  dead.    She  had  gone  to 

"  Him  who  made  the  heart, 
And  who  alone  decidedly  can  try  it; 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute — 
We  never  can  adjust  it. 
What's  done,  we  partly  may  compute, 
But  know  not  what's  resisted" 

Pale  as  a  ghost,  with  hair  suddenly  whitened  by  excess 
of  anguish,  the  wretched  brother  bent  over  the  corpse  of  that 
beautiful  sister  whom  he  had  loved  so  well.  They  spoke  to 
him  of  resignation  to  God's  will.  He  answered  not — for  it 
was  not  clear  to  him  that  the  cruelty  of  man  is  the  will  of 
God.  Reverently  and  tenderly  he  cut  from  that  fair  brow 
the  favorite  little  curl,  twined  about  with  so  many  sacred 
memories,  and  once  a  source  of  girlish,  innocent  joy  to  the 
yearning  heart  that  slept  so  calmly  now.  He  took  the  little 
bench  from  its  cold  corner  in  the  prison,  and,  gathering  to- 
gether his  small  personal  property,  he  retired  to  a  lonely  cave 
in  Dauphin  county.  He  shunned  all  intercourse  with  his 
fellow-men,  and,  when  spoken  to,  answered  briefly  and 
solemnly.  There  he  died,  a  few  years  ago,  at  an  advanced 
age.  He  is  well  remembered  in  the  region  round  about,  as 
William,  the  Hermit. 


The  more  honesty  a  man  has,  the  less  he  affects  the  air 
of  a  saint.  The  affectation  of  sanctity  is  a  blotch  on  the 
face  of  piety. 


EMBALMING  AMONG  THE  EGYPTIANS. 


The  Egyptians,  of  all  nations  of  antiquity,  are  most  de 
serving  of  our  attention.  To  this  wise  and  ingenious  people, 
who  made  such  advances  in  arts  and  science,  in  commerce 
and  legislation,  succeeding  nations  have  been  indebted  for 
whatever  institutions  civilize  mankind  and  embellish  human 
life.  The  priesthood  of  this  very  religious  people — to  whom 
knowledge  was  exclusively  confined,  being  wholly  free  from 
anxiety  about  secular  matters,  as  they  were  provided  for 
by  the  state — devoted  themselves  to  the  service  of  the  com- 
munity. Their  time  was  divided  between  the  performance 
of  their  sacred  duties  and  the  improvement  of  the  mind. 
Study  was  their  business,  the  good  of  the  people  was  their 
sole  object,  and  whatever  could  contribute  to  the  political 
or  moral  welfare  of  their  country,  was  pursued  with  a  zeal 
worthy  of  imitation  in  Christian  societies.  It  is  not  then 
surprising  that  they  made  such  amazing  progress  in  physic 
and  other  occult  sciences.  And  though  the  art  of  embalm- 
ing, as  practised  by  them,  is  now  obsolete,  and  the  medicated 
herbs  which  they  used,  may  not  now  be  ascertained,  yet  we 
may  gather  from  the  custom  what  study  and  attention  they 
employed  in  discovering  the  virtues  of  simples,  though  the 
science  of  medical  chemistry  was  probably  unknown  at  that 
early  period.  The  art  of  embalming  the  dead  was  peculiar 
to  the  Egyptians ;  they  alone  knew  the  secret  of  preserving 
the  body  from  decay.  In  the  Pentateuch,  we  find  that  when 
Abraham  and  Isaac  died,  they  were  simply  buried  ;  but  Ja- 
cob, and  afterwards  Joseph,  were  embalmed,  because  those 
two  patriarchs  died  in  Egypt.  This  mysterious  trade  de- 
scended from  father  to  son,  as  an  hereditary  and  sacred 
privilege.    The  embalmers  were  held  in  high  repute,  con- 


EMBALMING  AMONG  THE  EGYPTIANS. 


357 


rersed  with  the  priests,  and  were  by  them  admitted  into  the 
inner  parts  of  the  temples.    Embalming  may  have  been 
practised  in  Asia,  but  as  there  is  not  any  authority  for  this 
presumption,  it  may  be  inferred  that  the  custom  prevailed 
among  the  Chaldeans,  on  account  of  the  proximity  of  their 
country  to  Egypt,  and  the  similarity  of  pursuits  and  doc- 
trines :  an  intercourse  no  doubt  subsisted  between  these  two 
philosophical  nations  from  the  earliest  ages.     After  the 
death  of  Alexander  the  Great,  the  Egyptians  and  Chaldeans 
were  ordered  to  dress  the  body  in  their  own  way ;  but  this 
event  was  many  hundred  years  after  the  times  when  Egypt 
flourished  under  the  Pharaohs.    The  washing  and  dressing 
of  the  bodies,  alluded  to  by  Greek  and  Roman  writers,  was 
merely  an  external  application  of  unguents,  performed  with 
facility  and  dispatch,  not  for  the  purpose  of  preserving  the 
corpse,  but  in  honor  of  the  deceased.    The  ceremony  among 
the  Egyptians  was  sacred  and  solemn,  and  the  process  te- 
dious, intricate,  and  expensive.    In  the  patriarchal  history, 
the  sacred  writer  tells  us  that  forty  days  were  employed  in 
preparing  the  body  of  Jacob  for  sepulture.  "And  Joseph  com- 
manded his  servants  the  physicians  to  embalm  his  father : 
and  the  physicians  embalmed  Israel." — Gen.  ch.  50,  v.  2. 
And  here  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  officers  called  phy- 
sicians did  not  profess  the  art  of  curing ;  for  physic,  as  it  is 
now  called,  was  not  at  that  time  a  professional  pursuit :  not 
a  word  is  said  of  physicians  being  called  in  during  Jacob's 
sickness.    Besides,  the  Hebrew  word  is  rendered  in  the  Sep- 
tuagint,  by  those  who  prepare  the  body  for  burial.    It  is  true, 
the  author  of  the  Pentateuch  does  not  particularize  this 
ceremony  ;  but  Herodotus  and  Diodorus  are  clear  and  diffuse 
in  everything  relative  to  this  interesting  country.   The  Egyp- 
tians believed  that  the  soul  was  immortal,  or  rather,  that  it 
was  eternal :  they  imagined  that  it  not  only  was  not  subject 
to  death,  but  that  it  had  existed  from  all  eternity,  having 
neither  beginning  nor  end.    They  thought  that  as  it  was 
immaterial,  it  was  increate ;  and  as  it  was  increate,  that  it 
was  a  part  of  the  Divine  Spirit,  and  co-existent  with  that 
Being  from  whom  it  emanated.    In  order  to  substantiate  this 


358 


EMBALMING  AMONG  THE  EGYPTIANS. 


doctrine,  they  asserted  that  the  soul  had  been  in  a  state  of 
pre-existence,  and  at  the  dissolution  of  the  outward  man,  it 
passed  into  various  states;  and,  after  a  circuit  of  three  thou- 
sand years,  it  returned  to  reanimate  the  human  body.  Pytha- 
gorus  first  transplanted  this  dogma  from  Egypt  into  Greece , 
and,  though  no  works  of  that  philosopher  are  now  extant,  yet 
we  may  gather  from  later  writers  the  essential  tenets  of  the 
Pythagorean  sect.  Plato,  after  the  death  of  Socrates,  incul- 
cated the  same  principle,  in  order  to  validate  the  primary 
tenet  of  the  Socratic  school — the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
Virgil  has  shown  himself  very  sedulous  in  propagating  the 
same  doctrine  among  the  Romans.  These  two  nations  were 
of  opinion  that  death  separated  the  soul  from  the  body  ; 
they  were  therefore  no  longer  concerned  about  the  perishable 
part  of  man  ;  and  being  enlightened  by  the  rays  of  rational 
philosophy,  through  the  mists  of  error  and  superstition,  they 
looked  forward  to  a  future  state  as  a  reward  for  the  virtuous 
and  a  punishment  for  the  wicked.  The  Egyptians,  on  the 
contrary,  were  more  solicitous  to  preserve  the  material  part 
from  putrefaction  and  injury,  conceiving  that  the  soul  was 
inseparable  from  its  body,  so  long  as  the  latter  was  free  from 
corruption.  Inspired  by  this  superstition,  they  studied  and 
put  in  practice  every  means  of  preserving  the  human  frame  : 
they  applied  to  the  study  of  natural  history  to  discover  the 
virtues  of  simples,  and  provided  buildings  of  the  greatest 
magnitude  and  durability,  as  depositories  for  the  dead,  which 
still  remain  the  most  stupendous  monuments  of  human  labor 
in  the  world.  That  the  pyramids  were  built  as  sepulchres 
for  the  kings,  there  appears  no  reason  to  doubt ;  this  is  fully 
testified  by  modern  travelers.  Besides,  Diodorus  says  ex- 
pressly, that  Chemnis  and  Cephron  constructed  them  for  this 
purpose.  The  principal  care  of  the  Egyptians  was  turned 
to  the  preserving  the  dead  ;  they  looked  upon  their  houses 
as  temporary  dwellings,  but  to  their  cemeteries  they  gave 
the  name  of  the  eternal  mansions. 

Among  the  three  modes  of  embalming,  that  adopted  by 
the  rich  was  very  tedious  in  its  process,  and  expensive  in  its 
preparation.    As  soon  as  a  man  of  any  consideration  died, 


EMBALMING  AMONG  THE  EGYPTIANS.  359 


the  relations  of  the  deceased,  after  the  most  violent  expres- 
sions of  grief,  sent  for  the  embalmer,  who  carried  away  the 
corpse.  The  first  part  of  the  operation  was  to  extract  the 
brains  through  the  nostrils,  with  a  crooked  instrument  of 
iron  ;  for  the  more  ready  performance  of  which,  the  medium 
.  septum  of  the  nose  was  cut  away ;  the  vacuities  were  then 
filled  up  wTith  perfumes  and  aromatic  composition.  After 
this,  the  body  was  opened  with  much  ceremony  ;  for  this  pur- 
pose the  priest  made  a  mark  on  the  left  side,  just  above  the 
hip,  to  show  how  far  the  incision  was  to  be  made.  A  par- 
ticular officer  made  an  opening  with  a  very  sharp  Ethiopian 
stone.  As  soon  as  the  people  saw  this,  they  pelted  him  with 
stones,  and  pursued  him  with  maledictions — for  the  Egyp- 
tians looked  with  abhorrence  upon  any  one  who  offered  vio- 
lence to  a  human  body,  either  dead  or  alive,  The  embalmer 
then  inserted  his  hand,  and  drew  out  all  the  viscera,  except 
the  heart  and  kidneys,  while  the  bowels  were  washed  with 
odors.  The  entrails  were  not  restored  to  the  abdomen, 
but,  from  a  religious  motive,  they  were  thrown  in  the  Nile. 
Afterwards  the  belly  was  filled  with  cinnamon,  myrrh,  and 
other  odoriferous  drugs;  and  then  the  orifice  of  the  wound 
was  closed.  The  body  outwardly  was  anointed  with  the 
oil  of  cedar,  and  other  preservatives,  for  thirty  days.  This 
length  of  time  was  necessary  to  administer  the  preparations 
for  drying  it  and  preventing  its  putrefaction.  At  the  expi- 
ration of  this  term  the  corpse  was  again  washed,  and  wrap- 
ped up  in  many  folds  of  linen,  painted  with  sacred  charac- 
ters, and  seasoned  with  gums  and  other  glutinous  matter. 
This  renders  the  cloth  so  durable,  that  it  has  preserved  its 
consistence  even  to  the  present  day,  as*  specimens  exhibited 
in  this  country  and  in  England  fully  testify.  These  swathes 
of  cere-cloth  were  so  manifold,  that  there  are  seldom  less 
than  a  thousand  yards  of  filleting  about  one  body ;  and  so 
ingeniously  were  the  wrappings  managed,  that  the  linea- 
ments of  the  deceased  were  easily  discernible,  even  though 
the  face  was  covered  with  a  kind  of  mask  filled  with  mastic. 
On  the  breast  was  spread  a  broader  piece  of  cere-cloth,  on 
which  was  inscribed  some  memorable  sentiment ;  but,  for 


360 


SUMMER  EVENING. 


the  most  part,  having  a  figure  of  a  woman  with  expanded 
arms.  The  embalmer  having  done  his  duty,  the  mummy 
was  sent  back  to  the  kindred  of  the  defunct,  who  deposited  it 
in  a  wooden  coffin  made  of  a  species  of  sycamore,  called 
in  Egypt,  Pharaoh's  fig-tree.  Some  few  coffins  have  been 
found  of  solid  stone.  The  top  of  the  wooden  coffin,  or  mum- 
my chest,  was  carved  in  the  shape  of  a  woman's  head  ;  the 
face  had  been  richly  painted ;  the  rest  of  the  trunk  was 
adorned  with  hieroglyphics,  and  the  lower  end  was  broad 
and  flat  like  a  pedestal,  on  which  the  coffin  was  placed  erect 
in  the  place  designed  for  its  reception. 


SUMMER  EVENING: 


It  is  the  stilly  hour  of  eve, 

When  all  the  blossoms  seem  to  grieve, 

And  mourn  in  tears  the  day's  decline, 

While  on  their  petals  dew-drops  shine. 

Each  setting  sun  that  fades  away, 

But  warns  them  of  their  own  decay. 

Alas !  when  some  few  suns  are  o'er, 

They'll  revel  in  the  beam  no  more— ■ 

But  wither  on  their  lowly  bed, 

Like  some  lone  maid  whose  beauty's  fled. 

The  breeze  that  slumber'd  through  the  day, 

Now  whispering,  kisses  every  spray 

In  yonder  fragrant  jasmine  bower, 

And  fans  to  health  each  languid  flower. 

The  nightingale  is  warbling  now 
Responses  to  the  lover's  vow. 
There's  music  in  the  grove,  the  brake ; 
Nay,  music  in  the  sleeping  lake  ; 
For  every  zephyr's  wanton  sigh 
Fills  the  air  with  melody ; 
And  every  sound 

At  eve  like  this, 
That  floats  around, 

Breathes  balmy  bliss. 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


Thirty  years  ago,  or  thereabout,  it  would  scarcely  have  been 
needful  to  provide  any  reader  in  this  country  with  an  explanation 
of  the  scene  represented  in  this  picture.  The  fame  of  the  first 
great  American  novelist  was  then  rife  throughout  the  land  :  and 
"  Have  you  read  '  The  Spy  ?'  "  was  a  question  almost  as  univer- 
sal and  matter  of  course  as  at  any  subsequent  time  has  been 
the  like  query  having  for  its  subject  a  production  of  Buiwer, 
Dickens,  or  Eugene  Sue.  Mr.  Cooper  was  then  giving  to  the 
world  the  freshness  not  only  of  his  intellect,  but  of  his  feelings. 
Perhaps  his  later  works  have  been  greater  in  intellect,  and  im- 

ed  with  a  loftier  purpose,  but  those  which  appeared  at  the 

i  referred  to  had  by  far  the  greatest  number  of  readers. 

Thirty  years  ago,  or  thereabout,  as  we  have  said,  it  would 
have  been  unnecessary  to  inform  the  reader  that  Harvey  Birch 
was  the  hero,  or  at  least  the  principal  character,  of  Mr.  Cooper's 
"  Spy."  Now  we  will  not  undertake  to  say  that  the  name  may 
not  be  strange  to  the  ears  or  eyes  of  thousands.  A  new  genera- 
tion has  come  into  the  reading  market,  having  no  acquaintance 
with  Captain  Wharton,  and  Harper,  and  Jack  Lawton,  and  Dr. 
Sitgreaves;  and  for  the  benefit  of  such,  we  extract  from  "  The 
Spy,"  (by  permission  of  the  publisher,)  the  history  of  the  seene 
presented  in  the  picture : — 

"  (  On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires, 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires.' 

Gray. 

11  The  possessions  of  Mr.  Wharton  extended  to  some  distance 
on  each  side  of  the  house  in  which  he  dwelt,  and  most  of  his 
land  was  unoccupied.    A  few  scattering  dwellings  were  to  be 


384 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


seen  in  different  parts  of  his  domains,  but  they  were  fast  falling 
to  decay,  and  were  untenanted.  The  proximity  of  the  country 
to  the  contending  armies  had  nearly  banished  the  pursuits  of 
agriculture  from  the  land.  It  was  useless  for  the  husbandman 
to  devote  his  time,  and  the  labor  of  his  hands,  to  obtain  over- 
flowing garners,  that  the  first  foraging  party  would  empty. 
None  tilled  the  earth  with  any  other  view  than  to  provide  the 
scanty  means  of  subsistence,  except  those  who  were  placed  so 
near  to  one  of  the  adverse  parties  as  to  be  safe  from  the  inroads 
of  the  light  troops  of  the  other.  To  these  the  war  offered  a 
golden  harvest,  more  especially  to  such  as  enjoyed  the  benefits 
of  an  access  to  the  Eoyal  army.  Mr.  "Wharton  did  not  require 
the  use  of  his  lands  for  the  purposes  of  subsistence,  and  will- 
ingly adopted  the  guarded  practice  of  the  day,  and  limited  his 
attention  to  such  articles  as  were  soon  to  be  consumed  within 
his  own  walls,  or  could  be  easily  secreted  from  the  prying  looks 
of  the  foragers.  In  consequence,  the  ground  on  which  the  ac- 
tion was  fought,  had  not  a  single  inhabited  building,  besides  the 
one  belonging  to  the  father  of  Harvey  Birch.  This  stood  be- 
tween the  places  where  the  cavalry  had  met,  and  the  charge  had 
been  made  on  the  party  of  Wellmere. 

To  Katy  Haynes,  it  had  been  a  day  fruitful  in  incidents  to 
furnish  an  inexhaustible  theme  to  her  after  life.  The  prudent 
housekeeper  had  kept  her  political  feelings  in  a  state  of  rigid 
neutrality ;  her  own  friends  had  espoused  the  cause  of  the  coun- 
try, but  the  maiden  never  lost  sight  of  the  moment  when  she 
herself  was  to  be  espoused  to  Harvey  Birch.  She  did  not  wish 
to  fetter  the  bonds  of  Hymen  with  any  other  clogs  than  those 
with  which  nature  had  already  so  amply  provided  them.  Katy 
could  always  see  enough  to  embitter  the  marriage  bed,  without 
calling  in  the  aid  of  political  contention  ;  and  yet,  at  times,  the 
prying  spinster  had  her  doubts  of  which  side  she  should  be,  to 
escape  this  dreaded  evil.  There  was  so  much  of  practised  de- 
ception in  the  conduct  of  the  pedler,  that  the  housekeeper  fre- 
quently arrested  her  own  words  when  most  wishing  to  manifest 
her  sympathy.  His  lengthened  absences  from  home  had  com- 
menced immediately  after  the  hostile  armies  had  made  their 
appearance  in  the  county ;  previously  to  that  event,  his  returns 
had  been  regular  and  frequent. 

The  battle  of  the  Plains  had  taught  the  cautious  Washington. 


Harvey  birch  and  the  skinners. 


385 


the  advantages  possessed  by  his  enemy,  in  organization,  arms, 
and  discipline.  These  were  difficulties  to  be  mastered  by  his 
own  vigilance  and  care.  Drawing  off  his  troops  to  the  heights, 
in  the  northern  part  of  the  county,  he  bid  defiance  to  the  at- 
tacks of  the  royal  army,  and  Sir  William  Howe  fell  back  to  the 
enjoyments  of  his  barren  conquests,  a  deserted  city  and  the  ad- 
jacent islands.  Never  afterwards  did  the  opposing  armies  make 
the  trial  for  success  within  the  limits  of  West-Chester;  yet 
hardly  a  day  passed,  that  the  partisans  did  not  make  their  in- 
roads; or  a  sunrise,  that  the  inhabitants  were  spared  the  rela- 
tion of  the  excesses  that  the  preceding  darkness  had  served  to 
conceal.  Most  of  the  movements  of  the  pedler  through  the 
country  were  made  at  the  hours  which  others  allotted  to 
repose.  The  evening  sun  would  frequently  leave  him  at  one 
extremity  of  the  district,  and  the  morning  find  him  at  the  other. 
His  pack  was  his  never-failing  companion,  and  there  were  those 
who  closely  studied  him  in  his  moments  of  traffic,  who  thought 
his  only  purpose  was  the  accumulation  of  gold.  He  would  be 
often  seen  near  the  Highlands,  with  a  body  bending  under  the 
weight  it  carried;  and  again  near  the  Harlaem  river,  traveling, 
with  lighter  steps,  with  his  face  toward  the  setting  sun.  But 
these  glances  at  him  were  uncertain  and  fleeting.  The  inter- 
mediate time  no  eye  could  penetrate.  For  months  he  disap- 
peared, and  no  traces  of  his  course  were  ever  known. 

Strong  parties  held  the  heights  of  Harlaem,  and  the  northern 
end  of  Manhattan  Island  was  bristled  with  the  bayonets  of  the 
English  sentinels,  yet  the  pedler  glided  among  them  unnoticed 
and  uninjured.  His  approaches  to  the  American  lines  were 
also  frequent ;  but  generally  so  conducted  as  to  baffle  pursuit. 
Many  a  sentinel,  placed  in  the  gorges  of  the  mountains,  spoke 
of  a  strange  figure  that  had  been  seen  gliding  by  them  in  the 
mists  of  the  evening.  The  stories  reached  the  ears  of  the  offi- 
cers, and,  as  we  have  related,  in  two  instances,  the  trader  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  Americans.  The  first  time  he  escaped 
from  Lawton,  shortly  after  his  arrest ;  but  the  second  he  was 
condemned  to  die.  On  the  morning  of  his  intended  execution, 
the  cage  was  opened,  but  the  bird  had  flown.  This  extraordi- 
nary escape  had  been  made  from  the  custody  of  a  favorite  offi- 
cer of  Washington,  and  sentinels  who  had  been  thought  worthy 
to  guard  the  person  of  the  Commander-in-chief.    Bribery  and 


386 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


treason  could  not  approach  the  characters  of  men  so  well  es- 
teemed, and  the  opinion  gained  ground  among  the  common  sol 
diery,  that  the  pedler  had  dealings  with  the  dark  one.  Katy, 
however,  always  repelled  this  opinion  with  indignation;  for, 
within  the  recesses  of  her  own  bosom,  the  housekeeper,  in  rumi- 
nating on  the  events,  concluded  that  the  evil  spirit  did  not  pay 
in  gold.  Nor,  continues  the  wary  spinster  in  her  cogitations,, 
does  Washington ;  paper  and  promises  were  all  that  the  leader 
of  the  American  troops  could  dispense  to  his  servants,  until 
after  the  receipt  of  supplies  from  France ;  and  even  then,  al- 
though the  scrutinizing  eyes  of  Katy  never  let  any  opportunity 
of  examining  into  the  deer-skin  purse  pass  unimproved,  she 
was  never  able  to  detect  the  image  of  Louis,  intruding  into  the 
presence  of  the  well  known  countenance  of  George  III. 

The  house  of  Harvey  had  been  watched  at  different  times 
by  the  Americans,  with  a  view  to  his  arrest,  but  never  with  sue* 
cess ;  the  reputed  spy  possessed  a  secret  means  of  intelligence, 
that  invariably  defeated  their  schemes.  Once,  when  a  strong 
body  of  the  Continental  army  held  the  Four  Corners  for  a  whole 
summer,  orders  had  been  received  from  Washington  himself, 
never  to  leave  the  door  of  Harvey  Birch  unwatched ;  the  com- 
mand was  rigidly  obeyed,  and  during  this  long  period  the  pedler 
was  unseen  ;  the  detachment  was  withdrawn,  and  the  next  night 
Birch  re  entered  his  dwelling.  The  father  of  Harvey  had  been 
greatly  molested,  in  consequence  of  the  suspicious  character  of 
the  son.  But,  notwithstanding  the  most  minute  scrutiny  into 
the  conduct  of  the  old  man,  no  fact  could  be  substantiated 
against  him  to  his  injury,  and  his  property  was  too  small  to 
keep  alive  the  zeal  of  professed  patriots ;  its  confiscation  and 
purchase  would  not  reward  them  for  their  trouble.  Age  and 
sorrow  were  now  about  to  spare  him  from  further  molesta- 
tion, for  the  lamp  of  life  had  begun  to  be  drained  of  its  oil. 
The  separation  of  the  father  and  son  had  been  painful,  but  in 
obedience  to  what  both  thought  a  duty.  The  old  man  had 
kept  his  situation  a  secret  from  the  neighborhood,  in  order  that 
he  might  have  the  company  of  his  child  in  his  last  moments. 
The  confusion  of  the  past  day,  and  the  dread  that  Harvey 
might  be  too  late,  helped  to  hasten  the  event  he  would  fain  ar- 
rest for  yet  a  little  while.  As  night  set  in,  his  illness  increased 
to  such  a  degree,  that  the  dismayed  housekeeper  had  ser4"  a 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


387 


truant  boy,  who  had  been  shut  up  with  them  for  the  day  rather 
than  trust  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  combatants,  to  the 
Locusts,  in  quest  of  a  companion  to  cheer  her  desolate  situation. 
Caesar  was  the  only  one  who  could  be  spared,  and,  loaded  with 
eatables  and  cordials  by  the  kind  hearted  Miss  Peyton,  the  black 
had  been  despatched  on  this  duty.  The  dying  man  was  past 
the  use  of  such  articles,  and  his  chief  anxiety  seemed  to  centre 
in  a  meeting  with  his  absent  child. 

The  noise  of  the  chase  had  been  heard  by  the  group  in  the 
house,  but  its  cause  not  understood ;  and  as  both  the  black  and 
Katy  were  apprised  of  the  detachment  of  American  horse  being 
below  them,  with  its  discontinuance  all  apprehension  from  this 
disturbance  ceased.  They  heard  the  dragoons,  as  they  moved 
slowly  by  the  building,  but  in  compliance  with  the  prudent  in- 
junction of  the  black,  the  housekeeper  forbore  to  indulge  her 
curiosity  by  taking  a  view  of  the  pageant.  The  old  man  had 
closed  his  eyes,  and  his  attendants  supposed  him  to  be  asleep. 
The  house  contained  two  large  rooms,  and  as  many  small  ones. 
One  of  the  former  served  for  kitchen  and  parlor;  in  the  other 
lay  the  father  of  Birch ;  of  the  latter,  one  was  the  sanctuary 
of  the  vestal,  and  the  other  contained  the  provisions  for  sub- 
sistence. A  huge  chimney  of  stone  rose  in  the  centre  of  the 
building,  serving,  of  itself,  for  a  partition  between  the  larger 
rooms;  and  fire-places  of  corresponding  dimensions  were  in 
each  apartment.  A  bright  fire  was  burning  in  that  of  the  com- 
raon  room,  and,  within  the  very  jambs  of  its  monstrous  jaws 
sat  Caesar  and  Katy,  at  the  time  of  which  we  write.  The  Afri- 
can was  impressing  his  caution  on  the  housekeeper  to  suppress 
an  idle  curiosity  that  might  prove  dangerous. 

"  Best  nebber  tempt  a  Satan,"  said  Caesar,  rolling  up  his  eyes 
significantly,  till  the  whites  glistened  by  the  glare  of  the  fire ; 
"  I  like  to  lose  an  ear,  only  for  carrying  a  little  bit  of  a  letter ; 
but  I  wish  Harvey  get  back." 

"  It  is  very  disregardful  in  him  to  be  away  at  such  times,' 
said  Katy  imposingly.  "  Suppose  now  his  father  wanted  to 
make  his  last  will  in  the  testament,  who  is  there  to  do  such  a 
thing  for  him  ?  Harvey  is  a  very  wasteful  and  a  very  disre- 
gardful man." 

"  Perhaps  he  make  him  afore  ?"  said  the  black,  inquiringly. 


388 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


"  It  would  not  be  a  wonderment  if  he  had,"  returned  the 
housekeeper ;  he  is  whole  days  looking  into  the  Bible." 

"Then  he  read  a  good  book,"  said  the  black,  solemnly. 
"  Miss  Fanny  read  him  to  DiDah  berry  often." 

"Yes,"  continued  the  inquisitive  spinster;  "but  he  would 
not  be  forever  studying  it,  if  it  didn't  hold  something  more  as 
common." 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  stealing  softly  to  a  chest  of 
drawers  in  the  room  where  lay  the  sick,  took  from  it  a  large 
Bible,  heavily  bound,  and  secured  with  strong  clasps  of  brass, 
with  which  she  returned  to  the  expecting  African.  The  volume 
was  opened,  and  she  proceeded  instantly  to  the  inquiry.  Katy 
was  far  from-  an  expert  scholar,  and  to  Caesar  the  characters 
were  absolutely  strangers.  For  some  time  the  housekeeper  was 
occupied  with  finding  out  the  word  Matthew,  which  she  at  last 
saw  in  large  Roman  letters  crowning  one  of  the  pages,  and  in- 
stantly announced  her  discovery  to  the  attentive  Caesar. 

"  Berry  well,  now  look  him  all  through,"  said  the  black,  peep- 
ing over  the  damsel's  shoulder,  as  he  held  a  long,  lank  candle 
of  yellow  tallow  in  his  hand,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  throw  its 
feeble  light  on  the  volume. 

"  Yes,  but  I  must  begin  with  the  book,"  replied  the  other, 
turning  the  leaves  carefully  back,  until,  moving  two  at  once,  she 
lighted  upon,  a  page  covered  with  the  labors  of  a  pen.  "  Here," 
said  the  housekeeper  with  impatience,  and  shaking  with  the 
eagerness  of  expectation,  "  here  is  the  very  words  themselves ; 
now  I  would  give  the  w7orld  to  know  who  he  has  left  them  big 
silver  shoe  buckles  to." 

"  Read  'em,"  said  Caesar,  laconically. 

"  And  the  black  walnut  drawers ;  for  Harvey  could  never 
want  them." 

"  Why  no  want  'em  as  well  as  he  fader  ?"  asked  the  black, 
dryly. 

"  And  the  six  silver  table  spoons :  for  Harvey  always  uses 
the  iron." 

"  I  guess  he  say,"  continued  the  African,  pointing  significantly 
to  the  writing,  and  listening  eagerly,  as  the  other  thus  opened 
the  store  of  the  elder  Birch's  wealth. 

Thus  repeatedly  advised,  and  impelled  by  her  own  curiosity, 
Katy  commenced  her  task.    Anxious  to  come  to  the  part  which 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


389 


most  interested  herself,  she  dipped  at  once  into  the  centre  of 
the  subject. 

"Chester  Birch,  born  September  1st,  1775  read  the  spinster, 
with  great  deliberation. 

"  Well,1'  cried  the  impatient  Csesar,  "  what  he  give  him  ?" 

"Abigail  Birch,  born  July  \2th,  1757;"  continued  the  house 
keeper,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  I  guess  he  give  her  a  spoons,"  interrupted  the  black. 

"June  1st,  1760.  On  this  awful  day,  the  judgment  of  an 
offended  God  lighted  on  my  house  " — a  heavy  groan  from  the 
adjoining  room  made  the  spinster  instinctively  close  the  book, 
and  Csesar,  for  a  moment,  shook  with  fear.  Neither  possessed 
sufficient  resolution  to  go  and  examine  the  condition  of  the  suf- 
ferer, but  his  heavy  breathing  continued  as  usual.  Katy  dared 
not,  however,  re-open  the  Bible,  and  carefully  securing  its  clasps, 
it  was  laid  on  the  table  in  silence.  Caesar  took  his  chair  again, 
and  after  looking  timidly  round  the  room,  remarked — 

"  I  tought  he  'bout  to  go." 

"  No,"  said  Katy,  solemnly,  "  he  will  live  till  the  tide  is  out, 
or  the  first  cock  crows  in  the  morning." 

"  Poor  man  !"  continued  the  black,  nestling  still  farther  into 
the  chimney  corner;  UI  hope  he  lay  quiet  after  he  die." 

"  'Twould  be  no  astonishment  to  me  if  he  didn't,"  returned 
Katy,  glancing  her  eyes  round  the  room,  and  speaking  in  an 
under  voice  ;  <;  for  they  say  an  unquiet  life  makes  an  uneasy 
grave." 

"  Johnny  Birch  a  berry  good  man,"  said  the  black,  quite  posi- 
tively. 

"  Ah  !  Csesar,"  said  the  housekeeper,  in  the  same  voice,  "  he 
is  good,  only,  who  does  good — can  you  tell  me,  Caesar,  why 
honestly  gotten  gold  should  be  hidden  in  the  bowels  of  the 
earth?" 

"  If  he  know  where  he  be,  why  don't  he  dig  him  up  ?"  asked 
the  black,  promptly. 

"  There  may  be  reasons  not  comprehendible  to  you,"  said 
Katy,  moving  her  chair  so  that  her  clothes  covered  the  charmed 
stone,  underneath  which  lay  the  secret  treasures  of  the  pedler, 
unable  to  refrain  speaking  of  that  which  she  would  have  been 
very  unwilling  to  reveal ;  "  but  a  rough  outside  often  holds  a 
smooth  inside."    Cresar  stared  around  the  building,  unable  to 


390  HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 

fathom  the  hidden  meaning  of  the  damsel,  when  his  roving  eyes 
suddenly  became  fixed,  and  his  teeth  chattered  with  affright. 
The  change  in  the  countenance  of  the  black  was  instantly  per- 
ceived by  Katy,  and  turning  her  face,  she  saw  the  pedler  him- 
self, standing  within  the  door  of  the  room. 

"Is  he  alive?"  asked  Birch,  tremulously,  and  seemingly 
afraid  to  receive  an  answer  to  his  own  question. 

"  Surely,"  said  the  maiden,  rising  hastily  and  officiously  offer- 
ing her  chair  to  the  pedler,  "  he  must  live  till  day  or  the  tide 
is  down." 

Disregarding  all  but  her  assurance,  the  pedler  stole  gently  to 
the  room  of  his  dying  parent.  The  tie  which  bound  this  father 
and  son  together  was  one  of  no  ordinary  kind.  In  the  wide 
world  they  were  all  to  each  other.  Had  Katy  but  read  a  few  lines 
farther  in  the  record,  she  would  have  seen  the  sad  tale  of  their 
misfortunes.  At  one  blow  competence  and  kindred  had  been 
swept  from  before  them,  and  from  that  day  to  the  present  hour, 
persecution  and  distress  had  followed  their  wandering  steps. 
Approaching  the  bedside,  Harvey  leaned  his  body  forward,  and 
said,  in  a  voice  nearly  choked  by  his  feelings — . 

"  Father,  do  you  know  me  ?" 

The  parent  slowly  opened  his  eyes,  and  a  smile  of  satisfaction 
passed  over  his  pallid  features,  leaving  behind  it  the  impression 
of  death  in  still  greater  force,  by  the  contrast.  The  pedler  gave 
a  restorative  he  had  brought  with  him  to  the  parched  lips  of 
the  sick  man,  and  for  a  few  minutes  new  vigor  seemed  to  be 
imparted  to  his  frame.  He  spoke,  but  slowly  and  with  difficulty. 
Curiosity  kept  Katy  silent;  awe  had  the  same  effect  on  Caesar; 
and  Harvey  seemed  hardly  to  breathe,  as  he  listened  to  the  lan- 
guage of  the  departing  spirit. 

"  My  son,"  said  the  father  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  God  is  as  mer- 
ciful as  he  is  just;  if  I  threw  the  cup  of  salvation  from  my  lips 
when  a  youth,  he  graciously  offers  it  to  me  in  mine  age.  He 
chastiseth  to  purify,  and  I  go  to  join  the  spirits  of  our  lost 
family.  In  a  little  while,  my  child,  you  will  be  alone.  I  know 
you  too  well  not  to  foresee  you  will  be  a  lone  pilgrim  through 
life.  The  bruised  reed  may  endure,  but  it  will  never  rise.  You 
have  that  within  you,  Harvey,  that  will  guide  you  aright;  per- 
severe as  you  have  begun,  for  the  duties  of  life  are  never  to  be 
neglected — and — " 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


391 


A  noise  in  the  adjoining  room  interrupted  the  dying  man, 
and  the  impatient  pedler  hastened  to  learn  the  cause,  followed 
by  Katy  and  the  black.  The  first  glance  of  his  eye  on  the 
figure  in  the  door-way  told  the  trader  but  too  well,  both  his 
errand,  and  the  fate  that  probably  awaited  himself.  The 
intruder  was  a  man  still  young  in  years,  but  his  lineaments 
bespoke  a  mind  long  agitated  by  evil  passions.  His  dress  was 
of  the  meanest  materials,  and  so  ragged  and  unseemly,  as  to 
give  him  the  appearance  of  studied  poverty.  His  hair  was  pre- 
maturely whitened,  and  his  sunken,  lowering  eye,  avoided  the 
bold,  forward  look  of  innocence.  There  was  a  restlessness  in 
his  movements,  and  an  agitation  in  his  manner,  that  proceeded 
from  the  workings  of  the  foul  spirit  within  him,  and  which  was 
not  less  offensive  to  others  than  distressing  to  himself.  This 
man  was  a  well  known  leader  of  one  of  those  gangs  of  maraud- 
ers who  infested  the  county,  with  a  semblance  of  patriotism, 
and  were  guilty  of  every  grade  of  offence,  from  simple  theft  up 
to  murder.  Behind  him  stood  several  other  figures,  clad  in  a 
similar  manner,  but  whose  countenances  expressed  nothing  more 
than  the  callous  indifference  of  brutal  insensibility.  They  were 
all  well  armed  with  muskets  and  bayonets,  and  provided  with 
the  usual  implements  of  foot  soldiers.  Harvey  knew  resistance 
to  be  vain,  and  quietly  submitted  to  their  directions.  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  both  he  and  Caesar  were  stripped  of  their 
decent  garments,  and  made  to  exchange  clothes  with  two  of  the 
filthiest  of  the  band.  They  were  then  placed  in  separate  corners 
of  the  room,  and,  under  the  muzzles  of  the  muskets,  required 
faithfully  to  answer  such  interrogatories  as  were  put  to  them. 

"  Where  is  your  pack  ?"  was  the  first  question  to  the  pedler. 

11  Hear  me,"  said  Birch,  trembling  with  agitation;  "  in  the 
next  room  is  my  father,  now  in  the  agonies  of  death ;  let  me 
go  to  him,  receive  his  blessing,  close  his  eyes,  and  you  shall 
have  all — ay,  all !" 

"  Answer  me  as  I  put  the  questions,  or  this  musket  shall  send 
you  to  keep  the  old  driveller  company;  where  is  your  pack  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  nothing,  unless  you  let  me  go  to  m}'  father," 
said  the  pedler,  resolutely. 

His  persecutor  raised  his  arm  with  a  malicious  sneer,  and  was 
about  to  execute  his  threat,  when  one  of  his  companions  checked 
him,  and  cried — 


392 


HARVEY  BIR€H  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


"  What  would  you  do  ?  you  surely  forget  the  reward.  Tell 
us  where  are  your  goods,  and  you  shall  go  to  your  father." 

Birch  complied  instantly,  and  a  man  was  despatched  in  quest 
of  the  booty.  He  soon  returned,  throwing  the  bundle  on  the 
floor,  swearing  it  was  as  light  as  feathers. 

"  Ay,"  cried  their  leader,  "  there  must  be  gold  somewhere  for 
what  it  did  contain;  give  us  your  gold,  Mr.  Birch;  we  know 
you  have  it;  you  will  not  take  continental,  not  you.' 

"  You  break  your  faith,"  said  Harvey,  sullenly. 

"  Give  us  your  gold,"  exclaimed  the  other,  furiously,  pricking 
the  pedler  with  his  bayonet  until  the  blood  followed  his  pushes 
in  streams.  At  this  instant  a  slight  movement  was  heard  in  the 
adjoining  room,  and  Plarvey  cried  imploringly — 

"  Let  me — let  me  go  to  my  father,  and  you  shall  have  all." 

"  I  swear  you  shall  go  then,"  said  the  skinner. 

u  Here,  take  the  trash,"  cried  Birch,  as  he  threw  aside  the 
purse,  which  he  had  contrived  to  conceal,  notwithstanding  the 
change  in  his  garments. 

The  robber  raised  it  from  the  floor  with  a  hellish  laugh,  as 
he  said  coolly — 

"  Ay,  but  it  shall  be  to  your  Father  in  heaven.' 

"  Monster  !"  exclaimed  Birch,  "  have  you  no  feeling,  no  faith, 
no  honesty  ?" 

"  Why,  to  hear  him,  one  would  think  there  was  not  a  rope 
around  his  neck  already,"  said  the  other  malignantly.  u  There 
is  no  necessity  of  your  being  uneasy,  Mr.  Birch  ;  if  the  old 
man  gets  a  few  hours  the  start  of  you  in  the  journey,  you  will 
be  sure  to  follow  him  before  noon  to  morrow." 

This  unfeeling  communication  had  no  effect  on  the  pedler, 
who  listened  with  gasping  breath  to  every  sound  from  the  room 
of  his  parent,  until  he  heard  his  own  name  spoken  in  the  hollow, 
sepulchral  tones  of  death.  Birch  could  endure  no  more,  but 
shrieking  out — 

"  Father,  hush — father,  I  come — I  come  !"  he  darted  by  his 
keeper,  and  was  the  next  moment  pinned  to  the  wall  by  the 
bayonet  of  another.  Fortunately,  his  quick  motion  had  caused 
him  to  escape  a  thrust  aimed  at  his  life,  and  it  was  by  his  clothes 
only  that  he  was  confined. 

"  No,  Mr.  Birch,"  said  the  skinner,  11  we  know  you  too  well 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


393 


for  a  slippery  rascal,  to  trust  you  out  of  sight — your  gold,  your 
gold." 

"  You  have  it,"  said  the  pedler,  writhing  in  the  agony  of  his 
situation. 

"  Ay,  we  have  the  purse ;  but  you  have  more  purses.  King 
George  is  a  prompt  paymaster,  and  you  have  done  him  many 
a  piece  of  good  service.  Where  is  your  hoard  ?  without  it  you 
will  never  see  your  father." 

"  Remove  the  stone  underneath  the  woman,"  cried  the  pedler, 
eagerly — "  remove  the  stone." 

"  He  raves,  he  raves,"  said  Katy,  instinctively  moving  her 
position  to  another  stone  than  the  one  on  which  she  had  been 
standing.  In  a  moment  it  was  torn  from  its  bed,  and  nothing 
but  earth  was  seen  under  it. 

'f  He  raves;  you  have  driven  him  from  his  right  mind,"  con- 
tinued the  trembling  spinster ;  "  would  any  man  in  his  senses 
think  of  keeping  gold  under  a  hearth-stone  ?" 

"  Peace,  babbling  fool,"  cried  Harvey.  "  Lift  the  corner 
stone,  and  you  will  find  what  will  make  you  rich,  and  me  a 
beggar." 

"  And  then  you  will  be  despiseable,"  said  the  housekeeper, 
bitterly.  "  A  pedler  without  goods  and  without  money  is  sure 
to  be  despiseable." 

"  There  will  be  enough  left  to  pay  for  his  halter,"  cried  the 
skinner,  as  he  opened  upon  a  store  of  English  guineas.  These 
were  quickly  transferred  to  a  bag,  notwithstanding  the  declara- 
tions of  the  spinster,  that  her  dues  were  unsatisfied,  and  that,  of 
right,  ten  of  the  guineas  should  be  her  property. 

Delighted  with  a  prize  that  greatly  exceeded  their  expectations, 
the  band  prepared  to  depart,  intending  to  take  the  pedler  with 
them,  in  order  to  give  him  up  to  some  of  the  American  troops 
above,  and  claim  the  reward  offered  for  his  apprehension. 
Everything  was  ready,  and  they  were  about  to  lift  Birch  in 
their  arms,  for  he  refused  to  move  an  inch,  when  a  figure  entered 
the  room  that  appalled  the  group :  around  his  body  was  thrown 
a  sheet  of  the  bed  from  which  he  had  just  risen,  and  his  fixed 
eye  and  haggard  face  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  being  from 
another  world.  Even  Katy  and  Caesar  thought  it  was  the  spirit 
of  the  elder  Birch,  and  they  both  fled  the  house,  followed  by 
the  alarmed  skinners. 


394 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


The  excitement,  which  had  given  the  sick  man  strength,  s 
vanished,  and  the  pedler.  lifting  him  in  his  arms,  re-conveyc. 
him  to  his  bed.    The  reaction  of  the  system  which  followed 
hastened  to  close  the  scene. 

The  glazed  eye  of  the  father  was  fixed  upon  the  son;  his  lips 
moved,  but  his  voice  was  unheard.  Harvey  bent  down,  and, 
with  his  parting  breath,  received  the  dying  benediction  of  his 
parent.  A  life  of  privation,  of  care,  and  of  wrongs,  embittered 
most  of  the  future  hours  of  the  pedler.  But  under  no  sufferings, 
in  no  misfortunes,  the  subject  of  poverty  and  biting  obloquy,  the 
remembrance  of  that  blessing  never  left  him ;  it  constantly -gleam- 
ed over  the  images  of  the  past,  shedding  a  holy  radiance  around 
his  saddest  hours  of  despondency ;  it  cheered  the  prospect  of 
the  future  with  the  prayers  of  a  pious  spirit  for  his  well-being ; 
and  it  brought  assurance  to  his  soul,  of  having  discharged  faith- 
fully and  truly  the  sacred  offices  of  filial  love. 

The  retreat  of  Csesar  and  the  spinster  had  been  too  precipi- 
tate to  admit  of  much  calculation ;  yet  had  the  former  instinct- 
ively separated  himself  from  the  skinners.  After  fleeing  a  short 
distance  they  paused  from  fatigue,  and  the  maiden  commenced 
in  a  solemn  voice — 

"  Oh  !  Csesar,  'twas  dreadful  to  walk  before  he  had  been  laid 
in  his  grave  ;  but  it  must  have  been  the  money  that  disturbed 
him ;  they  say  Captain  Kidd  walks  where  he  buried  gold  in  the 
old  war." 

"  I  neber  tink  Johnny  Birch  had  such  big  eye,"  said  the 
African,  his  teeth  yet  chattering  with  the  fright. 

"  I'm  sure  'twould  be  a  botherment  to  a  living  soul,  to  lose 
so  much  money,  and  all  for  nothing,"  continued  Katy,  disre- 
garding the  other's  remark.  "  Harvey  will  be  nothing  but  a 
despiseable,  poverty-stricken  wretch.  I  wonder  who  he  thinks 
would  marry  him  now  !" 

"  Maybe  a  spooke  take  away  Harvey  too,"  observed  Caesar, 
moving  still  nearer  to  the  side  of  the  maiden.  But  a  new  idea 
had  seized  the  imagination  of  the  spinster:  she  thought  it  not 
improbable  that  the  prize  had  been  forsaken  in  the  confusion 
of  the  retreat ;  and  after  deliberating  and  reasoning  for  some 
time  with  Csesar,  they  both  determined  to  venture  back,  and 
ascertain  this  important  fact,  and,  if  possible,  learn  what  had 
been  the  fate  of  the  pedler.    Much  time  was  spent  in  cautiously 


HARVEY  BIRCH  AND  THE  SKINNERS. 


395 


approaching  the  dreaded  spot ;  and  as  the  spinster  had  saga- 
ciously placed  herself  in  the  line  of  the  retreat  of  the  skinners, 
every  stone  was  examined  in  the  progress,  to  see  if  it  was  not 
the  abandoned  gold.  -But,  although  the  suddenness  of  the 
alarm,  and  the  cry  of  Caesar,  had  impelled  the  freebooters  to  so 
hasty  a  retreat,  they  grasped  the  hoard  with  an  instinctive  hold 
that  death  itself  would  not  have  loosened.  Perceiving  every 
thing  to  be  quiet  within,  Katy  at  length  mustered  resolution 
enough  to  enter  the  dwelling,  where  she  found  the  pedler,  with 
a  heavy  heart,  performing  the  last  sad  offices  for  the  dead.  A 
few  words  sufficed  to  explain  to  Katy  the  nature  of  her  mistake ; 
but  Csesar  continued  till  his  dying  day  to  astonish  the  sable 
inmates  of  the  kitchen  with  learned  dissertations  on  spookes, 
and  to  relate  how  direful  was  the  appearance  of  Johnny  Birch. 

The  danger  to  himself  compelled  the  pedler  to  abridge  even 
the  short  period  that  American  custom  leaves  the  deceased  with 
us ;  and,  aided  by  the  black  and  Katy,  his  painful  task  was  soon 
ended.  Caesar  volunteered  to  walk  a  couple  of  miles  with 
orders  to  a  carpenter,  and  the  body,  being  habited  in  its  ordi- 
nary attire,  was  left,  with  a  sheet  laid  over  it  with  great  decency, 
to  await  the  return  of  the  messenger. 

The  skinners  had  fled  precipitately  to  the  wood,  which  was 
but  a  short  distance  from  the  house  of  Birch,  and  once  safely 
sheltered  within  its  shades,  they  halted,  and  mustered  their 
panic-stricken  forces. 

'  What  in  the  name  of  fury  seized  on  your  coward  hearts  V 
cried  the  dissatisfied  leader,  drawing  his  breath  heavily. 

'The  same  question  might  be  asked  yourself,'  returned  one 
of  the  band,  sullenly. 

1  From  your  fright,  I  thought  a  party  of  De  Lancy's  men 
were  upon  us.  Oh  I  you  are  brave  gentlemen  at  a  race,'  con- 
tinued the  leader,  bitterly. 

1  We  follow  our  Captain.' 

'  Then  follow  me  back,  and  let  us  secure  the  scoundrel,  and 
receive  the  reward.' 

1  Yes  ;  and  by  the  time  we  reach  the  house,  that  black  rascal 
will  have  the  mad  Virginian  upon  us;  by  my  soul,  I  would 
rather  meet  fifty  Cow-Boys,  than  that  single  man.' 

1  Fool,'  cried  the  enraged  leader, '  don't  you  know  Dunwoodie'fl 
horses  arc  at  the  Corners,  full  two-miles  from  here  ?' 


396 


LOVE  AND  KINDNESS. 


1 1  care  not  where  the  dragoons  are,  but  I  will  swear  that  I 
saw  Captain  Lawton  enter  the  house  of  old  Wharton,  while  I 
lay  watching  an  opportunity  of  getting  the  British  Colonel's 
horse  from  the  stable.' 

1  And  if  he  does  come,  won't  a  bullet  silence  a  dragoon  from 
the  south  as  well  as  one  from  old  England  V 

1  Ay,  but  I  don't  choose  a  hornets'  nest  about  my  ears ;  raise 
the  skin  of  one  of  that  corps,  and  you  will  never  see  another 
peaceable  night's  foraging  again.' 

1  Well,'  muttered  the  leader,  as  they  retired  deeper  into  the 
wood,  '  this  sottish  pedler  will  stay  to  see  the  old  devil  buried, 
and  though  we  mustn't  touch  him  at  the  funeral,  he'll  wait  to 
look  after  the  moveables,  and  to-morrow  night  shall  wind  up  his 
concerns.' 

With  this  threat  they  withdrew  to  one  of  their  usual  places 
of  resort,  until  darkness  should  again  give  them  an  opportunity 
of  marauding  on  the  community  without  danger  of  detection." 


LOVE  AND  KINDNESS. 


Angry  looks  can  do  no  good, 

And  blows  are  dealt  in  blindness ; 

Words  are  better  understood, 
If  spoken  but  in  kindness. 

Simple  love  far  more  hath  wrought, 
Although  by  childhood  mutter'd, 

Than  all  the  battles  ever  fought, 
Or  oaths  that  men  have  utter'd. 

Friendship  oft  would  longer  last, 
And  quarrels  be  prevented, 

If  little  words  were  let  go  past — 
Forgiven— not  resented. 

Foolish  things  are  frowns  and  sneers, 
For  angry  thoughts  reveal  them  ; 

Rather  drown  them  all  in  tears, 
Than  let  another  feel  them. 


GOSSIP  ABOUT  CHILDREN. 


BY  LEWIS  GAYLOItD  CLARK. 


I  love  children.  I  used  to  think,  when  I  was  a  bachelor,  (it 
is  a  good  many  years  ago  now,)  that  there  wa3  something  rather 
presuming  in  the  manner  in  which  doting  fathers  and  mothers 
would  bring  their  "  wee  things  "  around  them,  and,  for  the 
especial  edification  of  us  single  fellows,  cause  them  to  "  mis- 
speak half  uttered  words,"  and  to  go  through  with  divers  little 
lessons  in  manners  and  elocution.  But  both  parents  and  chil- 
dren were  made  so  apparently  happy  by  it,  that  I  never  could 
think,  as  certain  of  my  irreverent  companions  were  wont  to 
think,  and  to  say,  that  it  was  "  a  bore."  No,  I  never  thought 
or  said  that ;  but  I  did  think,  and  I  remember,  as  I  have  said, 
that  there  was  a  little  bad  taste,  and  not  a  little  presumption  in 
such  a  course. 

I  don't  think  so  now. 

When  a  father,  and  how  much  more  a  mother— sees  for  the 
first  time  the  gleam  of  affection  illuminating,  with  what  the 
Germans  call  an  "  interior  light,"  the  eyes  and  features  of  his 
infant  child ;  when  that  innocent  soul,  fresh  from  heaven,  looks 
for  the  first  time  into  yours,  and  you  feel  that  yours  is  an  an- 
swering look  to  that  new-born  intelligence — then,  I  say,  will  you 
experience  a  sensation  which  is  not  "  of  the  earth,  earthy,"  but 
belongs  to  the  "  correspondence  "  of  a  higher  and  holier  sphere. 

I  wish  to  gossip  a  little  with  you  concerning  children.  You 
are  a  full-grown  man  now,  friend  Go.dey,  quite  full-grown;  yet 
you  were  once  a  boy ;  and  I  am  well  assured  that  you  will  feel 
interested  in  a  few  incidents  which  I  am  going  to  relate  in  illus- 
tration of  my  theme — incidents  which  I  hope  you  will  judge  to 
be  not  unfruitful  of  monitory  lessons  to  "  children  of  larger 
growth  "  than  mere  girls  and  boys. 


398 


GOSSIP  ABOUT  CHILDREN. 


Don't  you  think  that  we  parents,  sometimes,  in  moments  of 
annoyance,  through  pressure  of  business  or  other  circumstances, 
forbid  that  which  was  but  innocent  and  reasonable,  and  per- 
fectly natural  to  be  asked  for  ?  and  do  not  the  best  of  parents 
frequently  multiply  prohibitions  until  obedience  to  them  becomes 
impossible  ? 

Excuse  me;  but  all  your  readers  have  been  children  ;  many 
of  them  are  happy  mothers  ;  many  more  that  are  not  will  be 
in  God's  good  time ;  and  I  cannot  but  believe  that  many  who 
shall  peruse  these  sentences  will  find  something  in  them  which 
they  will  remember  hereafter. 

"  The  sorrows  and  tears  of  youth,"  says  Washington  Irving, 
"  are  as  bitter  as  those  of  age ;"  and  he  is  right.  They  are  sooner 
washed  away,  it  is  true ;  but  oh  !  how  keen  is  the  'present  sensi- 
bility, how  acute  the  passing  mental  agony ! 

My  twin  brother  AYillis — may  his  ashes  repose  in  peace  in 
his  early,  his  untimely  grave ! — and  myself,  when  we  were  very 
little  boys,  in  the  country,  saw,  one  bright  June  day,  far  up  in 
the  blue  sky,  a  paper  kite,  swaying  to  and  fro,  rising  and  sink- 
ing, diving  and  curveting,  and  flashing  back  the  sunlight  in  a 
manner  that  was  wonderful  to  behold.  AYe  left  our  little  tin 
vessels  in  the  meadow  where  we  were  picking  strawberries,  and 
ran  into  a  neighboring  field  to  get  beneath  it ;  and,  keeping  our 
eyes  continually  upon  it,  "  gazing  steadfastly  toward  heaven," 
we  presently  found  ourselves  by  the  side  of  the  architect  of 
that  magnificent  creation,  and  saw  the  line  which  held  it  reach- 
ing into  the  skies,  and  little  white  paper  messengers  gliding  along 
upon  it,  as  if  to  hold  communion  with  the  graceful  artificial 
"  bird  of  the  air  "  at  the  upper  end. 

I  am  describing  this  to  you  as  a  boy,  and  I  wish  you  to  think 
of  it  as  a  boy. 

Well,  many  days  afterward,  and  after  various  unsuccessful 
attempts,  which  not  a  little  discomfited  us — for  we  thought  we 
had  obtained  the  "  principle  "  of  the  kite — we  succeeded  in  ma- 
king one  which  we  thought  would  fly.  The  air  was  too  still, 
however,  for  several  days;  and  never  did  a  becalmed  navigator 
i  wait  more  impatiently  for  a  breeze  to  speed  his  vessel  on  her 
voyage  than  did  we  for  a  wind  that  should  send  our  paper  mes- 
senger, bedizened  with  stars  of  red  and  yellow  paper,  dancing 
up  the  sky. 


GOSSIP  ABOUT  CHILDREN. 


399 


At  last  it  pleased  the  "  gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  " 
to  favor  us.  A  mild  south  wind  sprang  up,  and  so  deftly  did 
we  manage  our  machine,  that  it  was  presently  reduced  to  a 
mere  miniature  kite  in  the  blue  ether  above  us.  Such  a  triumph ! 
Fulton,  when  he  essayed  his  first  experiments,  felt  no  more 
exultant  than  did  we  when  that  great  event  was  achieved  !  We 
kept  it  up  until  "  'twixt  the  gloaming  and  the  mirk,"  when  we 
drew  it  down  and  deposited  it  in  the  barn — hesitating  long 
where  to  place  it,  out  of  several  localities  that  seemed  safe  and 
eligible,  but  finally  deciding  to  stand  it  endwise  in  a  barrel,  in 
an  unfrequented  corner  of  the  barn. 

I  am  coming  now  to  a  specimen  of  the  "  sorrows  and  tears 
of  youth,"  of  which  Geoffrey  Crayon  speaks.  We  dreamed  of 
that  kite  in  the  night ;  and,  far  up  in  the  heaven  of  our  sleeping 
vision,  we  saw  it  flashing  and  gleaming  opaquely  in  the  twilight 
air.  In  the  morning,  we  repaired  betimes  to  the  barn,  ap- 
proached the  barrel  with  eagerness,  as  if  it  were  possible  for 
the  kite  to  have  taken  the  wings  of  the  evening  and  flown 
away ;  and,  on  looking  down  into  the  receptacle,  we  saw  our 
cherished,  our  beloved  kite  broken  into  twenty  pieces ! 

It  was  our  man  Thomas  who  did  it,  climbing  up  on  the  hay- 
mow. 

We  both  of  us  "  hated  with  a  perfect  hatred,"  for  five  years 
afterward,  the  cruel  neighbor  who  laughed  at  us  for  our  deep 
six  months'  sorrow  at  that  great  loss — a  loss  in  comparison  with 
which  the  loss  of  a  fortune  at  the  period  of  manhood  sinks  into 
insignificance.  Other  kites,  indeed,  we  constructed ;  but  that 
was  the  kite  "  you  read  of,"  at  "  this  present." 

Think,  therefore,  0  ye  parents  !  always  think  of  the  acuteness 
of  a  child's  sense  of  childish  grief. 

I  once  saw  an  elder  brother,  the  son  of  a  metropolitan  neigh- 
bor, a  romping,  roystering  blade,  in  the  merest  "devilment," 
cut  off"  the  foot  of  a  little  doll  with  which  his  infantine  sister 
was  amusing  herself.  A  mutilation  of  living  flesh  and  blood, 
of  bone  and  sinew,  in  a  beloved  playmate,  could  scarcely  have 
affected  the  poor  child  more  painfully.  It  was  to  her  the  vital 
current  of  a  beautiful  babe  which  oozed  from  the  bran  leg  of 
that  stuffed  eflSgy  of  an  infant ;  and  the  mental  sufferings  of  the 
child  were  based  upon  the  innocent  faith  which  it  held,  that  all 
things  were  really  what  they  seemed. 


100 


GOSSIP  ABOUT  CHILDREN. 


Grown  people  should  have  more  faith  in,  and  more  appre 
ciation  of,  the  statements  and  feelings  of  children.  When  I 
read,  some  months  since,  in  a  telegraphic  dispatch  to  one  of 
our  morning  journals,  from  Baltimore,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
of  a  mother  who,  in  punishing  a  little  boy  for  telling  a  lie — 
which,  after  all,  it  subsequently  transpired  that  he  did  not  tell — 
hit  him  with  a  slight  switch  over  his  temple  and  killed  him  in- 
stantly— a  mere  accident,  of  course,  but  yet  a  dreadful  casualty, 
which  drove  reason  from  the  throne  of  the  unhappy  mother — 
when  I  read  this  I  thought  of  what  had  occurred  ki  my  own 
sanctum  only  a  week  or  two  before;  and  the  lesson  which  ] 
received  was  a  good  one,  and  will  remain  with  me. 

My  little  boy,  a  dark  eyed,  ingenuous,  and  frank-hearted  child 
as  ever  breathed — though,  perhaps,  "I  say  it  who  ought  not  to 
say  it " — still.  I  do  say  it — had  been  playing  about  nry  table, 
on  leaving  which,  for  a  moment,  I  found,  on  my  return,  that  my 
long  porcupine-quill  handled  pen  was  gone.  I  asked  the  little 
fellow  what  he  had  done  with  it.  He  answered  at  once  that  he 
had  not  seen  it.  After  a  renewed  search  for  it,  I  charged  him, 
in  the  face  of  his  declaration,  with  having  taken  and  mislaid  or 
lost  it.    He  looked  me  earnestly  in  the  face  and  said — 

"  No,  I  didn't  take  it,  father." 

I  then  took  him  in  my  lap,  enlarged  upon  the  heinousness  of 
telling  an  untruth,  told  him  that  I  did  not  care  so  much  about 
the  pen,  and  in  short,  by  the  manner  in  which  I  reasoned  with 
him,  almost  offered  him  a  reward  for  confession — the  reward, 
be  it  understood  (a  dear  one  to  him),  of  standing  firm  in  his 
father's  love  and  regard.  The  tears  had  swelled  up  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  seemed  about  to  "  tell  me  the  whole  truth,"  when 
my  eye  caught  the  end  of  the  pen  protruding  from  a  portfolio, 
where  I  myself  had  placed  it,  in  returning  a  sheet  of  manu- 
script to  one  of  the  compartments.  All  this  may  seem  a  trifle 
to  you — -and  perhaps  it  is — yet  I  shall  remember  it  for  a  long 
time. 

But  I  desire  now  to  narrate  to  you  a  circumstance  which  hap- 
pened in  the  family  of  a  friend  and  correspondent  of  mine  in 
the  city  of  Boston,  some  ten  years  ago,  the  history  of  which 
will  commend  itself  to  the  heart  of  every  father  and  mother 
who  have  any  sympathy  with,  or  affection  for,  their  children. — 
That  it  is  entirely  true,  you  may  be  well  assured.    I  was  con- 


GOSSIP  ABOUT  CHILDREN. 


401 


vineed  of  this  when  I  opened  the  letter  from  L.  H.  B  , 

which  announced  it,  and  in  the  detail  of  the  event  which  was 
subsequently  furnished  me. 

A  few  weeks  before  he  wrote,  he  had  buried  his  eldest  son,  a 
fine,  manly  little  fellow,  of  some  eight  years  of  age,  who  had 
never,  he  said,  known  a  day's  illness  until  that  which  finally  re> 
moved  him  hence  to  be  here  no  more.  His  death  occurred 
under  circumstances  which  were  peculiarly  painful  to  his  pa- 
rents. A  younger  brother,  a  delicate,  sickly  child  from  his 
birth,  the  next  in  age  to  him,  had  been  down  for  nearly  a  fort- 
night with  an  epidemic  fever.  In  consequence  of  the  nature  of 
the  disease,  every  precaution  had  been  adopted  that  prudence 
suggested  to  guard  the  other  members  of  the  family  against  it. 
But  of  this  one,  the  father's  eldest,  he  said  he  had  little  to  fear, 
so  rugged  was  he,  and  so  generally  healthy.  Still,  however,  he 
kept  a  vigilant  eye  upon  him,  and  especially  forbade  his  going 
into  the  pools  and  docks  near  his  school,  which  it  was  his  cus- 
tom sometimes  to  visit ;  for  he  was  but  a  boy,  and  "  boys  will 
be  boys,"  and  we  ought  more  frequently  to  think  that  it  is  their 
nature  to  be.  Of  all  unnatural  things,  a  reproach  almost  to 
childish  frankness  and  innocence,  save  me  from  a  "  hoy-man  /" 
But  to  the  story — 

One  evening  this  unhappy  father  came  home,  wearied  with  a 
long  day^s  hard  labor,  and  vexed  at  some  little  disappointment 
which  had  soured  his  naturally  kind  disposition,  and  rendered 
him  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the  smallest  annoyance.  While  he 
was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  this  unhappy  mood  of  mind,  his  wife 
entered  the  apartment,  and  said  : 

"Henry  has  just  come  in,  and  he  is  a  perfect  fright;  he  is 
covered  from  head  to  foot  with  dock  mud,  and  is  as  wet  as  a 
drowned  rat." 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  asked  the  father  sternly. 

"He  is  shivering  over  the  kitchen  fire.  He  was  afraid  to 
come  up  when  the  girl  told  him  you  had  come  home." 

"Tell  Jane  to  tell  him  to  come  here  this  instant!"  was  the 
brief  reply  to  this  information. 

Presently  the  poor  boy  entered,  half  perished  with  affright 
and  cold.  His  father  glanced  at  his  sad  plight,  reproached  him 
bitterly  with  his  disobedience,  spoke  of  the  punishment  which 


GOSSIP  ABOtJT  CHILDREN c 


awaited  him  in  the  morning  as  the  penalty  for  his  offence,  and, 
in  a  harsh  tone,  concluded  with — 
"  Now,  sir,  go  to  your  bed  V* 

"  But,  father,"  said  the  little  fellow,  a  I  want  to  tell  you  19 

"  Not  a  word,  sir ;  go  to  bed!"11 

H  I  only  wanted  to  say,  father,  that  'f 

With  a  peremptory  stamp,  an  imperative  wave  of  his  hand 
toward  the  door,  and  a  frown  upon  his  brow,  did  that  father, 
without  other  speech,  again  close  the  door  of  explanation  or 
expostulation. 

When  his  boy  had  gone  supperless  and  sad  to  his  bed,  the 
father  sat  restless  and  uneasy,  while  supper  was  being  prepared ; 
and,  at  tea-table,  ate  but  little.  His  wife  saw  the  real  cause, 
or  the  additional  cause  of  his  emotion,  and  interposed  the  re- 
mark— 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  you  ought  at  least  to  have  heard  what 
Henry  had  to  say.  My  heart  ached  for  him,  when  he  turned 
away,  with  his  eyes  full  of  tears*  Henry  is  a  good  boy,  after 
all,  if  he  does  sometimes  do  wrong.  He  is  a  tender-hearted, 
affectionate  boy.    He  always  was." 

And  therewithal  the  water  stood  in  the  eyes  of  that  forgiving 
mother,  even  as  it  stood  in  the  eyes  of  Mercy,  in  "  the  house 
of  the  Interpreter,"  as  recorded  by  Bunyan. 

After  tea,  the  evening  paper  was  taken  up ;  but  there  was  no 
news  and  nothing  of  interest  for  that  father  in  the  journal  of 
that  evening.  He  sat  for  some  time  in  an  evidently  painful 
revery,  and  then  rose  and  repaired  to  his  bed-chamber.  As  he 
passed  the  bed  room  where  his  little  boy  slept,  he  thought  he 
would  look  in  upon  him  before  retiring  to  rest.  He  crept  to 
his  low  cot  and  bent  over  him.  A  big  tear  had  stolen  down  the 
boy's  cheek,  and  rested  upon  it ;  but  he  was  sleeping  calmly 
and  sweetly.  The  father  deeply  regretted  his  harshness  as  he 
gazed  upon  his  son }  he  felt  also  the  "sense  of  duty;"  yet  in 
the  night,  talking  the  matter  over  with  the  lad's  mother,  he  re- 
solved and  promised,  instead  of  punishing,  as  he  had  threatened, 
to  make  amends  to  the  boy's  aggravated  spirit  in  the  morning, 
for  the  manner  in  which  he  had  repelled  all  explanation  of  his 
offence. 

But  that  morning  never  came  to  that  poor  boy  in  health. 
He  awoke  the  next  morning  with  a  raging  fever  on  his  br*in, 


GOSSIP  ABOUT  CHILDREN.  403 

and  wild  with  delirium.  In  forty-eight  hours  he  was  in  his 
shroud.  He  knew  neither  his  father  nor  his  mother,  when  they 
were  first  called  to  his  bedside,  nor  at  any  moment  afterward. 
Waiting,  watching  for  one  token  of  recognition,  hour  after 
hour,  in  speechless  agony,  did  that  unhappy  father  bend  over 
the  couch  of  his  dying  son.  Once,  indeed,  he  thought  he  saw 
a  smile  of  recognition  light  up  his  dying  eye,  and  he  leaned 
eagerly  forward,  for  he  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  whis- 
pered one  kind  word  in  his  ear,  and  have  been  answered ;  but 
that  gleam  of  apparent  intelligence  passed  quickly  away,  and 
was  succeeded  by  the  cold,  unmeaning  glare,  and  the  wild  toss- 
ing of  the  fevered  limbs,  which  lasted  until  death  eame  to  his 
relief. 

Two  days  afterwards  the  undertaker  came  with  the  little 
coffin,  and  his  son,  a  playmate  of  the  deceased  boy,  bringing 
the  low  stools  on  which  it  was  to  stand  in  the  entry -hall. 

il  I  was  with  Henry,"  said  the  lad,  F?  when  he  got  into  the 
water.  We  were  playing  down  at  the  Long  Wharf,  Henry, 
and  Charles  Munford,  and  I;  and  the  tide  was  out  very  low; 
and  there  was  a  beam  run  out  from  the  wharf ;  and  Charles 
got  out  on  it  to  get  a  fish  line  and  hook  that  was  hung  over  where 
the  water  was  deep;  and  the  first  thing  we  saw,  he  had  slipped 
off,  and  was  struggling  in  the  water  !  Henry  threw  off  his  cap, 
and  jumped  clear  from  the  wharf  into  the  water,  and,  after  a 
great  deal  of  hard  work,  got  Charles  out ;  and  they  waded  up 
through  the  mud  to  where  the  wharf  was  not  so  wet  and  slip- 
pery ;  and  then  I  helped  them  to  climb  up  the  side.  Charles 
told  Henry  not  to  say  anything  about,  it,  for,  if  he  did,  his  father 
would  never  let  him  go  near  the  water  again.  Henry  was  very 
sorry;  and,  all  the  way  going  home,  he  kept  saying: 

"  1  What  will  father  say  when  he  sees  me  to-night  ?  I  wish 
we  had  not  gone  to  the  wharf!' " 

"Dear,  brave  boy!"  exclaimed  the  bereaved  father;  "and 
this  was  the  explanation  which  I  cruelly  refused  to  hear  I"  and 
hot  and  bitter  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

Yes,  that  stern  father  now  learned,  and  for  the  first  time,  that 
what  he  had  treated  with  unwonted  severity  as  a  fault,  was  but 
the  impulse  of  a  generous  nature,  which,  forgetful  of  self,  had 
hazarded  life  for  another.  It  was  but  the  quick  prompting  of 
that  manly  spirit  which  he  himself  had  always  endeavored  to 


404 


GOSSIP  ABOUT  CHILDREN". 


graft  upon  his  susceptible  mind,  and  which,  young"  as  he  was, 
had  always  manifested  itself  on  more  than  one  occasion. 

Let  me  close  this  story  in  the  very  words  of  that  father,  and 
let  the  lesson  sink  deep  into  the  hearts  of  every  parent  who 
shall  peruse  this  sketch. 

"  Everything  that  I  now  see,  that  ever  belonged  to  him,  re- 
minds me  of  my  lost  boy. — Yesterday,  I  found  some  rude  pen- 
cil-sketches, which  it  was  his  delight  to  make  for  the  amusement 
of  his  younger  brother.  To-day,  in  rumaging  an  old  closet,  I 
came  across  his  boots,  still  covered  with  dock-mud,  as  when  he 
last  wore  them.  (You  may  think  it  strange,  but  that  which  is 
usually  so  unsightly  an  object,  is  now  'most  precious  to  me.') 
And  every  morning  and  evening  I  pass  the  ground  where  my 
son's  voice  rang  the  merriest  among  his  playmates. 

"  All  these  things  speak  to  me  vividly  of  his  active  life  j 
but  I  cannot — though  I  have  often  tried — I  cannot  recall  any 
other  expression  of  the  dear  boy's  face  than  that  mute,  mourn- 
ful one  with  which  he  turned  from  me  on  the  night  I  so  harshly 
repulsed  him.    Then  my  heart  bleeds  afresh  ! 

M  Oh,  how  careful  should  we  all  be  that,  in  our  daily  conduct 
toward  those  little  beings,  sent  us  by  a  kind  Providence,  we  are 
not  laying  up  for  ourselves  the  sources  of  many  a  future  bitter 
tear !  How  cautious  that,  neither  by  inconsiderate  nor  cruel 
word  or  look,  we  unjustly  grieve  their  generous  feeling ! — And 
how  gradually  ought  we  to  weigh  every  action  against  its  mo- 
tive, lest,  in  a  moment  of  excitement,  we  be  led  to  mete  out  to 
the  venial  errors  of  the  heart  the  punishment  due  only  to  wilful 
crime ! 

"  Alas  !  perhaps  few  parents  suspect  how  often  the  fierce  re- 
buke, the  sudden  blow,  is  answered  in  their  children  by  the 
tears,  not  of  passion,  nor  of  physical  or  mental  pain,  but  of  a 
loving  yet  grieved  or  outraged  nature." 

I  will  add  no  word  to  reflections  so  true ;  no  correlative  inci- 
dent to  an  experience  so  touching. 


As  our  shadows  follow  us  in  the  clearest  sunlight,  so  will  the 
shades  of  our  sins  in  our  calmest  and  best  hours. 


F  L  0  E I  N  E  . 


"  Oh  !  desolate  is  now  the  home  thy  beauty  made  so  fair, 
And  cheerless  is  the  lonely  heart  which  mourns  thine  absence  there; 
Yet,  though  unknown  its  sorrows  be,  its  sufferings  unseen, 
The  hope,  the  light  of  life  are  gone ;  they  died  with  thee,  Florine." 

In  the  cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise,  in  an  obscure  corner, 
there  stands  a  plain  monument  surmounted  by  an  urn,  on 
which  is  inscribed  the  name  Florine.  Every  morning,  on  my 
accustomed  visit  to  this  beautiful  dwelling  of  the  dead,  I  was 
certain  to  find  a  fresh  garland  of  immortelle  wreathed  around 
the  urn,  and  the  choicest  flowers  of  the  season  scattered  upon 
the  turf;  yet,  early  as  my  visit  might  be,  I  could  never  encoun- 
ter the  individual  who  so  faithfully  performed  this  act  of  devo- 
tion. One  day  I  happened  to  fall  in  company  with  one  of  the 
keepers  of  the  cemetery,  and  in  the  course  of  our  conversation 
inquired  of  him  who  was  the  tenant  of  that  tomb.  "  Alas ! 
sir,"  said  he — "  there  is  a  melancholy  story  connected  with  those 
ashes,  and  but  that  I  fear  I  would  be  tedious,  I  would  willingly 
narrate  it  to  you." 

"  By  no  means,"  said  I — "  I  am  fond  of  melancholy  stories — 
you  will  greatly  oblige  me  by  your  recital." 

"  Come  this  way,  then,"  said  he — "  where  we  may  not  be 
interrupted," — and  leading  me  a  little  distance  from  the  path, 
he  spoke  nearly  as  follows : 

"  On  the  entry  of  the  Allied  forces  into  Paris,  in  1815,  a  )roung 
English  lady  arrived  at  the  Hotel  Delorme.  She  was  without 
any  attendant — could  scarcely  speak  a  word  of  French,  and 
appeared  to  be  suffering  from  great  mental  agitation.  From 
her  singular  appearance,  and  being  alone,  some  delicacy  was 
felt  at  receiving  her.  But  having  sent  for  the  Maitresse  d1 
Hotel,  and  explained  to  her  the  purport  of  the  business  which 
had  brought  her  to  Paris,  namely,  to  endeavor  to  discover  her 
lover  and  betrothed,  a  young  officer  in  the  12th  Hussars,  of 
whom  she  had  heard  no  tidings  since  his  departure  to  join  the 
army.  The  good  lady  at  once  entered  into  her  feelings,  listened 
with  kindness  to  her  story,  and  promised  her  every  assistance 
within  her  power ;  in  short,  their  interview  ended  with  an  agree- 
ment that  on  the  following  day  they  should  together  endeavor 
to  obtain  some  clue  to  the  object  of  the  young  lady's  affections. 


.106 


PLOR1NE. 


As  early  as  decorum  would  admit  of  on  the  following  morning, 
they  accordingly  sallied  forth.  Those  who  have  never  beheld 
a  city  in  the  hands  of  a  triumphant  enemy,  can  conjecture  noth- 
ing so  singularly  exciting  and  picturesque,  and  perhaps  never 
was  the  strength  and  brilliancy  of  war  more  gorgeously  dis- 
played than  when  the  Parisian  capital  was  in  the  possession  of 
the  Allied  Powers.  Warriors  of  every  nation  were  there  assem- 
bled, the  bold  and  ferocious  looking  Cossack — the  hardy  Rus- 
sian— the  warlike  Austrian — the  gay  and  gallant  Italian — the 
proud  and  fearless  Prussian — the  stern  and  thoughtful  German 
— the  frank  Swede  and  Norwegian — the  dogged  Dane,  and  the 
victorious  and  unconquerable  Englishman ;  all  were  promiscu- 
ously scattered  throughout  the  city,  guarding  it  with  lynx-eyed 
vigilance,  lest  the  Usurper  might  disavow  his  abdication,  and, 
by  some  sudden  ruse,  again  bid  defiance  to  his  conquerors. 

Through  the  greater  part  of  these  warlike  bodies  had  the 
two  females  passed,  when  suddenly  the  brilliant  costume  of  the 
12th  Hussars  caught  the  eye  of  the  young  lady.  1  Ah!'  she 
exclaimed,  1  he  is  not  there,'  and  fell  almost  fainting  upon  the 
shoulder  of  her  companion. 

1  Who  is  not  there  ?'  inquired  the  matron. 

1  He  that  I  told  you  of  last  evening — my  betrothed,  Augustus 
De  Euthven,' — at  the  same  time  a  soldier  of  the  troop  galloped 
past  them.  He  was  instantly  recognized  by  her.  '  Hector  !' 
she  ejaculated.    In  a  moment  he  brought  his  courser  to  a  stand. 

The  soldier  appeared  paralyzed  at  her  presence.  He  raised 
his  helmet  deferentially,  and  in  a  voice  of  astonishment  exclaimed, 
4  Miss  De  Vere  !' 

1  Yes,  yes,'  she  replied,  1  my  good  Hector,  where  is  Augustus?' 

The  soldier's  head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  he  drew  his 
hand  across  his  eyes. 

1 Killed  ?'  said  the  female. 

'It  is  but  too  true,  madam,  on  the  field  of  Mont  St.  Jean.' 

1  Take  me  hence  !  Take  me  hence  !'  said  she,  in  a  deep  and 
solemn  voice.  At  the  same  moment  a  wild  and  rigid  look  set- 
tled on  her  countenance,  and  a  laugh  of  thrilling  sound  burst 
from  her  bosom. 

The  Maitresse  (V  Hotel  complied  with  her  request ;  but  from 
that  moment  reason  had  fled  its  empire.  All  that  humanity 
could  effect  to  recover  her  was  resorted  to,  but  in  vain ;  in  three 


BIRTH-DAY  LINES. 


407 


days  from  this  occurrence,  she  had  ceased  to  exist,  and  was 
borne  to  the  grave  by  the  hands  of  strangers." 

"And  was  naught  ever  heard  of  Augustus?"  asked  I. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  sir,"  said  my  informant,  "  it  happened  that  he  had 
been  but  severely  wounded  when  left  for  dead  upon  the  field. 
By  those  employed  tp  bury  the  slain,  he  was  discovered,  and 
carried  to  a  neighboring  house,  where,  by  degrees,  he  recovered, 
and  returned  to  Paris,  to  learn  the  fatal  tidings  of  his  love;  and 
it  is  he  who  at  the  earliest  dawn  of  every  day,  comes  thus,  to 
offer  his  devotions  and  scatter  flowers  upon  her  grave." 

On  further  inquiry,  I  learned  that  Augustus,  after  the  resto- 
ration of  peace,  had  retired  from  the  service  and  settled  in  the 
precincts  of  Paris,  a  broken-hearted,  melancholy  man.  The 
tomb  he  had  erected  to  the  memory  of  Florine,  as  well-  as  to 
cover  his  own  ashes,  when  it  should  please  the  Almighty  to 
call  him  hence. 

" 1  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be : 
I  say  the  tale  as  'twas  said  to  me." 


BIETH  - DAY  LINES. 


BY  ANNIE  DANE. 

What  shall  I  sing  thee,  sister  dear 

On  this  thy  natal  day  1 
Why  dost  thou  bid  me  breathe  again 

For  thee  my  careless  lay  1 

In  thine  own  heart  is  gushing  now 
A  lighter,  gladder  song, 

Than  e'er  can  flow  from  lip  of  mine, 
Which  has  not  sung  so  long. 

Methought  that  in  the  silent  hall, 
Where  mem'ry  loves  to  weep, 

With  the  dear  visions  of  the  past 
I'd  laid  my  lyre  to  sleep. 

But  thy  sweet  voice  hath  woke  again 
The  chords  that  cannot  rest, 

As  sunlight's  touch  awoke  the  lamp, 
In  Memnon's  silent  breast. 


BIRTH-DAY  LINES. 


The  summer  hours  have  sped  away, 

Upon  a  radiant  wing ; 
But,  round  our  daily  paths,  thy  smile 

Did'st  brightest  sunshine  fling. 

And  we  are  joined  by  mutual  ties — 
So  closely,  naught  can  sever; 

When  fondest  hearts  surround  thy  shrine, 
Thou'lt  turn  from  mine  not  ever. 

Oh  !  wheresoe'er  thy  footsteps  lead, 
Throughout  the  coming  year, 

My  fervent  prayer  shall  go  with  thee, 
Unshadowed  by  a  fear. 

Ah  !  would  that  like  a  silver  cloud, 
It  might  around  thee  glide, 

Impervious  to  wind  and  storm — 
A  shield  on  every  side. 

But  there's  a  love— more  pure  than  mine 
Will  light  around  thee  throw, 

That,  if  thy  faith  be  firm  and  true, 
Will  ever  constant  glow. 

Look  up  with  smiles,  if  doubt  assail, 

And  trust  His  holy  care, 
And  know,  whatever  be  His  will, 

:  Tis  best  for  thee  to  bear. 

Then  light  will  every  burden  seem, 

And,  with  prophetic  eye, 
Hope  will  discern  some  ray  of  joy 

In  every  darkened  sky. 

If  some  strange  cloud  should  fall  upon 
That  happy  brow  of  thine, 

Oh!  may  it,  passing,  leave  a  beam, 
That  shall  intenser  shine. 

If  ever  tear  should  stain  thine  eye, 
Or  dim  its  gladsome  light, 

Oh  !  softly  may  it  melt  away, 

As  dew  from  floweret  bright ! 

Now,  joy  go  with  thee,  sister  dear, 

And  hope  attend  thy  way, 
And  may  thy  heart  be  light  as  now, 

Upon  thy  next  birth  day  ! 


m 


